


Men from Manhattan

by winghead



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (How The Heck Did I Forget To Tag That), Alternate Universe - Western, Breaking Up & Making Up, Divorce, Established Relationship, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, Kidnapping, M/M, Presumed Dead, Steampunk!Ironman, Tony Gone Girls Himself (No Murder)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 56,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23910409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winghead/pseuds/winghead
Summary: It is 1879 and United States of America is still licking its wounds from the War. Among the 1.030,000 casualties were weapons manufacturer and genius, Howard Stark, and his family. From these ashes, Stark Industries rose against all odds under the firm hand of Obadiah Stane.But, between north and south, unity is far from reality—badly healed wounds are reopened when an unknown party shakes the political scene in the form of a series of deaths. Meanwhile, somewhere in Colorado, Steve and Tony find nothing to talk about in the face of the realization that their marriage is falling apart…
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 57





	1. Troubled Waters

The rustler hit the street with a sand-blowing thud.

Sam pulled back his fist, but the man was out for count. Absurdly spread-eagled, he laid there, a red mark starting to bloom high on his cheek while the sand was slowly settling anew, coloring the thief’s white shirt light brown.

“James!” Sam called, turning around. “Where are you, man? Did you see that? With one blow, not bad, eh?”

But there’s no answer; the other deputy had been guarding his back, Sam was positive, but now the main street was empty except for him and the thief. Sam frowned in annoyance—it was much less fun showing off without James to show off to.

“Bucky?” he tried again.

The town was quiet, too. No carriages on the streets, not a soul crossing through the shades of the porches. The flat-faced public houses were silent. The rope, on the other end of which the thief had been dragged by a bull, lay frayed a hundred yards off, beside the man’s hat.

Something wet and cool trickled down Sam’s forehead. He wiped it off with his sleeve and stepped over the legs of the thief—tracing back the steps of his past chase—but he had barely taken half a dozen steps when a gun fired around the corner and Sam broke into a run, blood curdling.

Around the corner of the hardware store, though, a somewhat unexpected sight opened in front of his eyes: standing in the middle of the narrowed street, were Steve and Bucky, staring anxiously down at the body of a dead cow laying at their feet. Bucky’s gun was still smoking.

“Where’s the guy?” Bucky asked when he noticed Sam approaching.

“Taking the count,” answered Sam, a little smugly. “What’s this?”

“Pym’s cow,” Steve said unnecessarily.

“Yeah?” said Sam. “You mean one of the heifers Ant-Man said would win the county’s Harvest Fair for months before we went and shot it? That cow?”

“Wouldn’t have been my first call,” said Bucky. “But the bull did a number on her.”

“No kidding.”

Silence fell between the three of them as they looked down at the heifer. The victim of the rampant bull’s lone stampede had a beautiful golden-brown coat that was now marred by two horn-shaped punctures and, just distinguishable under a trickle of dried blood, was Hank Pym’s brand of three interloped rings, not unlike an ant.

“So, should we draw straws for it?” Sam suggested after a beat, looking from Steve to Bucky. “Just between you and me, I don’t fancy breaking the news.”

“Me, too. I think Pym has it out for me,” said Steve bitterly; this injustice still rankled.

“That’s a first,” said Sam.

“Tell you what, I’m not going to leave bodies lying around, human or otherwise,” Steve said, then addressed Sam, “Take the man inside and then come back. We’re gonna need all of us to move her.”

“Copy that,” Sam said and made his leave.

However, no sooner had he reached the main street than he came to a halt, having spied movement in the distance. Two riders were covering the wild-grass strewn desert floor between them at rapid gallop.

“Look at that,” Sam made known to the others, out of sight back in the alley. At his call, Steve and Bucky came jogging to join him.

“What is it?” Bucky asked.

Steve groaned. “Pym’s men.”

“The grapevine works harder than I thought,” said Sam.

Steve stepped forward.

“Where are you going?” Bucky quickly asked.

“To have a chat with them about keeping their animals in check.”

“Steve,” chastised Bucky, but Steve was already striding towards their new company.

“Don’t worry,” Steve threw over his shoulder, “I’m not going to punch them in the nose.”

“You can’t just pick a fight with them about the treatment of their property after we just shot said property,” Bucky said with painful restraint.

“Why the hell not?” Steve grinned. “I’m the Sheriff.”

It seemed to dawn on Bucky he could not hold Steve back and thus, Bucky caught up with him and together they strode forward, shoulder to shoulder. In silence, Sam followed.

“Remember that time Pym called Tony a second-rate engineer?” Bucky said. “Is this a payback? They were just moving cattle to higher ground. They couldn’t have told you some were missing. It’s a big fuss given the sheer volume of animals you need to transfer from one place to another. There’s obviously been a small theft they’ve just noticed during their fall inspection—”

But the rest of Bucky’s chatter, in a rather justifying tone, was drowned by his rising state of surprise as he identified the other rider right as they closed the intervening space. Next to the just-stirring thief, the horses came to a stop in a skid that sent dust and small pebbles everywhere.

“Lang,” Steve greeted, and nodded towards the other rider, “Ms. Pym.”

“Ma’am,” cut in Bucky.

“Cap—er, Sheriff Rogers, sir,” said Scott Lang, flustered, but looking at Steve steadily. “The law doesn’t rest, huh? Cool, cool … cool. I said that already, didn’t I?”

It seemed rather rhetorical, so Steve disregarded with a self-conscious smile. Behind him, Sam stepped pointedly in front of the thief’s face, tapping his boot onto the ground. The man grimaced.

“Your job’s crazy,” Lang said, looking down from his saddle in reverence, though his brows furrowed once he noticed the lack of cattle nearby despite their prints all over the street. “Oh, man. Did Cow-coa and Moolissa break free?”

Steve stared at him. “Who?”

“The bull and the heifer,” said Ms. Pym, whose horse was impatiently pawing the ground. “It’s been raining up in the hills. The clouds have been on our heels since we left the grounds. We followed the trail here.”

“Smart,” Bucky praised readily.

Ms. Pym hardly spared him a half a glance.

“Then I’m sorry to tell you,” Steve told them, looking into Scott’s earnest face, framed in a thin-brimmed brown hat, and wished that he could return a different sentiment. “We lost the heifer in the scuffle. The bull got startled by gunfire.”

Scott’s easy smile dimmed. “Oh. Mr. Pym—”

“Hank will mope, but he will get over it,” said Ms. Pym with indifference, and then continued suspiciously, “Where is the bull?”

“Hope!” hissed Scott, scandalized. “You know who _Steve Rogers_ is, don’t you?”

“Would be hard not to,” replied Hope simply.

“Er—well, the bull is probably halfway to Kremmlin by now,” said Sam who had seen the bull disappear into the horizon just before his last encounter with the thief. “Last I saw him he was banking the corner ‘round the saloon as fast as his hooves carried him. Nearly impaled old Lee.”

Hope pursed her lips. “He won’t be far.”

“You’re right,” Bucky said. “Fifty miles is too long to keep up a pace like that.”

Again, he was ignored.

“But there are mountain lions out there,” Scott moaned. “He don’t do so good alone. What if he gets lost?”

Hope reined around her horse, who went gladly. “Then we’ll wire everyone we know who live on the road there. Mr. Rogers, ask Mr. Hogan to lend us his wagon for moving Moolissa.”

“Anything to help,” Steve said as he sidestepped the swishing tail of the horse. “Sorry again, for the heifer.”

Scott waved this aside with a dismissive flick that sent his coiled lasso flying loose.

“Hey, no harm done,” he said as he sheepishly gathered it back into neat loops. He brought two fingers to his brim in a salute. “I trust you to do the right thing, Sheriff. Good day, gentlemen.”

They rode off, raising the dust anew. Steve stared after them where, above their heads and the tan earth and scrub, rainclouds lingered over the white-capped mountain range north to the town. Hopefully, some could be spared for them; Steve was tired of feeling sand grind between his teeth. Irritated, he dusted off his jacket with several strong hits from his hat.

“So,” said Sam, when the riders were out of earshot,” you’ve got a fan.”

“Sam,” Steve warned; he hated the idea they were all imagining him to have some special power to match his repute.

“What? Seen the amount of license you get?” Sam said, sounding half-affronted, half-awed. “Caught the guy looking at that star of yours like it was the medal for valor, which I know you _have_.”

“Maybe I did pin it to my chest by accident this morning, hold on,” Steve said, making a show of checking his chest. “No, tin as usual.”

Sam’s face broke into an indulging grin. “Oh, so that’s how it is?”

“Oh, that’s how it is—"

“I can’t believe this,” said Bucky, whose jaw muscles worked as if he was chewing.

“What?”

“I just lost to a widowed single father. It’s … it’s like I’m invisible. This is a nightmare.”

Steve, who thought this a refreshing way for Bucky to taste his own medicine, only huffed and settled not to challenge the term.

“She’s out of your league,” said Sam. “Anyway, see that dent the guy made on the street once I knocked him down? I could show you the bruise on his face.”

He made to kneel before the rustler, who looked very reluctant to be showcased as proof and was looking around, hoping somebody would intervene.

“Maybe later,” answered Bucky. “But you’d think the glamor of war would’ve dimmed some by now, right? I just don’t get it, it’s not like there’s something special in him. Remember Tony? All he did was bat those lashes and this fella—” Bucky shoved a thumb at Steve, “—stood there, paralyzed. Next thing we know he’s put a ring on it.”

“But _you_ are not Tony,” Sam said.

“Women in this town just aren’t as cheap as Steve,” Bucky scoffed. “And I refuse to lose to a pint-sized city slicker.”

With that, he took the thief by the armpit. He stomped off, the dumbfounded rustler struggling in his hold, his boots digging grooves into the dry street in their wake.

Sam and Steve, stifling laughter, fought not to catch each other’s gazes and set off after him.

***

The Sheriff’s Office was lit by a lone orange-colored gaslight that started swinging wildly in the ceiling once they opened the door and brought in both the rustler and the risen gusts of westerly. The wind tore through the front room into the back towards the holding cells, and from behind a flapping copy of today’s newspaper peeked two spurred boots. As they frog marched the rustler into the back towards the holding cells, a corner of it folded down to reveal Clint’s quizzical face.

“I heard shots,” he said.

“Nobody’s dead,” said Steve, stopping by his desk and eyeing the unfinished paperwork there.

“Tell that to _Daily Bugle.”_

At the back, Sam and Bucky swung shut the ironwork with an echoing _clang_.

“What’s happened?” Steve asked apprehensively, draping his dusty jacket over his chair just when Clint threw the newspaper on top of Steve’s scattered papers. Steve drew up his chair and picked up the newsprint.

“Thaddeus Ross is dead,” Clint announced.

“Sorry?” asked Bucky, having just returned from the back, but Steve understood.

Ross had been one of the men he had stumbled into during all the stiff, decorative formalities that had followed his obtaining the medal for valor. As a former Senator and a Republican, he had been very vocal about advanced social justice. Had he angered the wrong people?

“The president-elect? Wasn’t he born in Brooklyn?” Sam asked, walking over to look at the paper over Steve’s shoulder. He met Steve’s gaze. “You’re from there. Any idea what he did to deserve it?”

“We didn’t exactly share a social class,” Steve said dryly, and started to skim until he reached right column. Here, Steve’s eyes flied over the words: a short listing the injuries the body had sustained, including the description of the fatal wound, found during the autopsy of the deceased.

“So,” he said, laying the newsprint down, “a politician was shot? Sounds oddly familiar.”

“Read on,” urged Clint. “They mention the killer further down. They say it to be a Confederate sympathizer.”

Steve looked down at the sketched illustration of the city hall and the surrounding square where it had happened. Something didn’t fit about the distances, thought Steve, and tried to find a chapter on the weapon used.

Bucky beat him to it. “What was their weapon of choice?”

Clint did not hear this. He hadn’t been looking at Bucky’s lips.

“No one knows,” Steve read from the paper. “The cartridge didn’t match any known caliber and, according to the autopsy, the wound was shaped weird.”

Bucky huffed. “Should have used Stark’s, that’s what I would’ve done. Harder to pin down now that everyone and their mother’s got those—now _that’s_ an assassination.”

“You know their policy is to keep count of the purchases, right?” asked Sam, who now had to raise his over Bucky and Clint’s noises of derision. “And for a good reason—”

 _“Anyone_ could build a gun—look at Tony for example,” Bucky argued back. “That just shows you, name’s no guarantee of talent. If Tony had the means, he’d wipe Stane’s face with the entire industry.”

Steve looked from one man to another, contemplative.

“I think I’ll have Tony take a look at this,” he said, rising up and rolling the newsprint back into a neat twist.

“It ain’t up to you, though,” said Clint.

Steve paused. “Who’s it up to, then?”

“The mayor.”

“Fury?”

“I’m just borrowing it,” Clint told him. “Fury likes his news printed in Washington D. C. He buys them through mail and picks them up from the stagecoach stopover at Sokovia.”

Steve debated on inquiring further how Clint had come by this piece of news, but decided, upon reflection, that he did not want to know.

“If he minds, tell him to take it up with me,” said Steve, and walked to the door. Here, Bucky stopped him.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said. “You can ask Tony later. You live together, after all. What’s the rush?”

“Bucky,” Steve said with severity, “I keep no secrets from him.”

“It’s not that. It’s his—condition—that I’m talking about,” protested Bucky.

“What condition?” Steve said quickly.

“He’s not right. He’s flushed, manic. Hot one minute, cold the next. Surely, you’ve noticed. The time he’s supposedly at work makes no sense at all.”

“He’s been drinking,” Clint put in helpfully.

“Tony never touches alcohol.”

Bucky stared into Steve’s earnest face and did not seem reassured, but frustrated. Perhaps Steve’s feelings were clear on his face, for Bucky looked apologetic and hurried on, “Steve, we don’t mean to slander—”

“You kinda did,” Steve said coolly, and ducked out the door into the sunlit street, where, now that today’s incident was over, people had started to trickle back outside.

His pulse was still elevated by the very thought of these accusations, for they were neither fair nor true. Did they really think Steve did not know the man to whom he was married? It was not Clint who had sat down with Tony as he had broken down and confessed his past addiction, his past everything…

“Good afternoon,” said a voice from behind him in the shadows of the porch.

Steve turned around on his heel. Huddled against the porch railing was Mayor Fury, wearing a coat so dusty that it perfectly blended into the brick wall of the office.

“I did wonder,” he drawled, digging at his pockets, “where my newspaper had gone.”

Fury took out his cigarette fixings. As Steve observed him trying to roll, Fury muttered a curse when the dry makings were almost swept off by the risen wind.

“Read the news?” he asked, when the roll was finally successful.

Steve nodded.

“It’s damn bad luck years for democracy. What a Western campaign tour ... someone must’ve put a bounty on his head.”

“You have given this a great deal of thought,” remarked Steve, brows raised.

“It’s a hobby of mine, politics,” Fury said and smirked, but dropped it soon. “I hear you’ve been busy. Coulson should have a slot for a trial next week. The federal house up in Denver is getting pretty stuffed, though.”

Fury lit a match, bringing it to the cigarette butt inside his cupped hand. This cast ominous shadows upon his eyepatch, causing the surrounding scars to seem even deeper. The flame flickered; almost dying out.

“God damn it,” Fury swore and shook his hand to snuff out the flames. “You feel this air, don’t you? We might be getting that rain faster than we thought. I ain’t—”

But Steve never found what he wasn’t going to do; Fury was interrupted by a resounding crash behind them on the street.

In a synchronous movement, both Steve and Fury swiveled to look out onto the street where Happy’s wagon stood not hundred yards from them, left front wheel twisted, wagon tongue nearly buried in the sand, and all this fronted by a visibly distressed mule. Scott Lang appeared to be attempting to split himself into two and was trying to simultaneously keep the limp but lofty form of Moolissa on the listed wagon bed while calming down the panicky mix-breed.

From inside the Office, Bucky and Clint ran to the door, hands on their holsters.

“Buck, get hammer and nails,” Steve said, even as his heart plummeted. The vision he had been promising himself—solitude, comfort, the warm body of his husband and a house void of sand—disappeared, spiraled into the late afternoon sky.

Hours later, after gaining several blisters from shaving an old board to replace the broken axel and hammering back together the bent wheel; grimy from wiping heir sweaty foreheads on their dusty sleeves, they were able to send off Scott and his borrowed mule-driven wagon on their journey northwards to home.

***

Steve’s own home, when he at last reached it around seven o’clock, offered long-overdue relief. The house, with its slanted roof and an extension added two years previously to shield their chickens from the elements, was already lit with a warm glow. It was all a blur to Steve, however, who was yawning rather prominently, and by the time he opened the door, his eyes were watering so greatly he had to blink twice in order to take in what he was seeing.

“Um?” said Steve.

What appeared to be a very, very strange oil lamp had appeared onto his ceiling during the day. As he closed the door behind him, Tony looked down from the stool, on which he was standing, disentangling his hands from what-ever-that-was in their ceiling.

“Wh—what is this…?” Steve stammered.

“A state-of-the-art carbon-filament bulb,” Tony explained. “You’re welcome. It runs on a hydro-pneumatic accumulator, which I put under the flooring.”

“Hydra— _under the flooring?”_ Steve asked and looked down in fear of seeing a hole ripped into the hand-sawn floorboards under his feet.

“Huh?” Tony said vaguely; he was still perched precariously on his stool, immersed in his newest project.

“Did you destroy our floor in order to—never mind,” added Steve, realizing that Tony wasn’t listening.

The new light, although very small and cool, was much brighter than their old lamps; it dazzled Steve’s eyes even through the glass. It lit Tony’s face with a glow that accentuated the flush of his cheeks. Despite this, his pupils were blown.

Steve gave no credence to Bucky and Clint’s accusations, but he began to agree that Tony might be spinning out of control: in his shirtsleeves, Tony decidedly did not look right. He was, Steve knew, more intelligent and creative than any other man he had met, with potential to break new ground—but only if he didn’t break himself while reaching there.

“Did you set this up all day?” Steve questioned.

At first, he thought Tony hadn’t heard this either.

“You know I like paying attention to your projects,” Steve defended. “I like pointing them out before you have the chance to announce them. But sometimes I wish I did not have to fear that you’ve, I don’t know, knocked down a _wall_ in my absence.”

Tony then fixed on him for the first time the same piercing gaze Steve had seen used against Fury when the mayor got too curious about his inventions.

“Did you come home before sunset?” Tony said finally, jumping off of his elevated spot. “’Cause I came home before sunset.”

“Well…” Steve began, watching Tony strut away, but Tony had undergone a startling return to his animated, rambling self.

“Hey, I would hate to cut you off, but I’ve got stew warmed up on the range, so.”

_“You?”_

“Yes, just about to wrap up here. And you are dirty. Seriously, what did you do, fought old Dusty and lost?”

“Funny you should ask that,” Steve said, and sat down by their trestle table. A kettle whistled in the kitchen. While Tony disappeared behind the corner, Steve placed the newspaper next to him as a reminder of what he wanted to ask. However, when Tony returned to set the table with their plain, casual dinner set, it turned out Steve didn’t have to bring it up after all.

“What’s this?” Tony asked as he placed the plates down and picked up the paper.

“Just something I wanted your consultation on,” Steve said. “It can wait.”

“No, no,” Tony wagged a finger at him, “you brought it up. Which bit?”

“Bottom left. I wanted you to have a look at the wound in the coroner’s report.”

Tony did. “Huh,” he said as his eyes skimmed along the lines. “Yup, piece of cake … the bullet went in sideways. It’s been known to happen with poor rifling. If I were them, I would concentrate my efforts on anyone buying Hammer’s products.” He threw the paper into the corner of the table, away from the plates. “Who was the poor bastard?”

“Thaddeus Ross,” said Steve.

Tony, who had just been lifting a plate, fumbled. The plate shattered on the wooden floorboards. Steve jumped up with a cry of, “Tony?”

“I’m fine. It just slipped,” Tony said, “I must have still had some oil on my fingers.” He shook off Steve’s hands and asked with false casualty, “You mean the president-elect?”

“Uh-huh.”

Steve eyed him suspiciously, refusing to sit as Tony rubbed at his shirt front to remove the oil.

“That report was from Texas,” Tony pointed out after a moment. “A bit outside your jurisdiction.”

“Well, seen that all the criminal activity has somewhat lessened as of late, so … yeah, had to ask Fury’s permission to branch out.”

“Fury?” asked Tony quickly.

“He was the one who gave Clint that paper.”

Suddenly, for the first time that night, Steve found himself the recipient of Tony’s full, undivided focus.

“Steve, our _mayor_ considers the morning wasted if he hasn’t discovered seven conspiracies by lunchtime. For a white-collar, he’s pretty sprightly. And the fact he’s now advanced to getting others to join his paranoia, _should_ be ringing your Sheriff-y sense. I want you to swear to me you won’t let him drag you into his madness, no matter what happens.”

Steve, taken aback by the directness of his speech, took a while to register the last part. “What do you mean ‘no matter what happens?’”

“Swear it,” Tony urged.

Steve’s face must have registered at least a flicker of mutiny, because Tony went further.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said.

“I swear you won’t,” said Steve, both chilled and elated at such an open expression of love from his husband. “I won’t let him.”

“Oh, good.”

Tony picked up the jagged pieces of the plate and arranged them, slowly, into a pile on their table.

“Do you know something about what’s going on, Tony?” Steve asked. “Look at me.”

Tony did.

“You know,” Steve told him, “sometimes I have no idea whether you’re about to wreck our house or kill yourself with work.”

“I know, but, hey,” said Tony. “I thought we agreed not to talk shop after hours. Wanna run that by me again?”

And before Steve knew it, Tony had grabbed him by his cartridge belt and sidled up to him. _Oh,_ Steve thought, and watched Tony’s eyes fixate on his lips, watched him smile in a way that made him fear anything might happen now. If Tony came any closer, he would hear Steve’s heart agreeing hungrily with this plan; he was already close enough Steve could count each individual lash.

Then, Tony’s lips were on his, in a familiar, established, but questioning, I’m-down-if-you-are kiss until Tony realized Steve wasn’t down, for he started to test the eventual separation of their mouths with the lingering motions of ending the kiss. When, at length, Tony did pull back, the spell between them broke like a frail soap bubble.

A moment of unbearable silence settled between them.

“No dice, huh?” Tony said.

It was all on the table now. Maybe that was better. Steve didn’t do well with ambiguous communication. He would rather know the score.

“You know,” he said, “it’s amazing how we always end up talking about me instead of you.”

They went through a silent war of wills. Steve’s won.

“Fine, Fury visited this morning. The old snoop had a lot of question. Too many. Remind me to change the locks.” Tony shoved his hands into his pockets and swayed on his feet. “I’ve made a ton of new things after the last mailing of spare parts. I invented this new type of textile … I made a … I made a phonograph, for recording sound…”

“When was your last day off?”

“Last week,” Tony said, upfront.

Steve crossed his arms. Tony’s eyes darted to his biceps, and Steve noted with satisfaction that the kiss had not _completely_ been a means of distraction.

“Last week,” he repeated, unimpressed.

“That’s the thing with metal, you’ve got to strike it while it’s—right, I confess,” Tony went on after catching Steve’s look. “I’m overdoing it. We’ve known that. But, honey, I’m _bored._ Let’s go somewhere. A holiday. Do you remember Sacramento?”

“Of course,” Steve replied automatically and watched Tony tap against his chest in so short an interval it resembled a tic.

“It was great. We should do that again. Be together. Just the two of us.”

They were getting near it now, Steve thought, the reason at the bottom of all this.

“Tony,” Steve begun slowly, “what’s wrong?”

The tapping stilled. “I don’t care about the close-knit community idyll anymore,” Tony confessed in a rush. “It’s … it’s dull. This is me trying to revive myself.”

Steve felt as though someone had sucked the air out; it was suddenly very stifling in their three-roomed house.

“And your answer is to relive our honeymoon in _winter?”_

“If it gets messy, we can always double back. No? Then how about Denver? Is that okay?”

“I frequently oversee hangings in Denver. I’m afraid its romantic potential is lost on me,” Steve said, dryly.

“Right, you know what? I’m thinking this holiday is a bad idea.”

The rapid changes in direction left Steve reeling. “Okay?”

“Yeah, done deal. They need you here to run the place, I understand, believe it or not. They need a man in charge, and that’s you.” Tony smiled hollowly. “It’s always been you.”

Then Tony paused; he looked like he wished to go back in time and unsay one, if not several, of his last sentences.

“Right,” said Tony, in an odd voice. “We should … eat. Oh, by the way, there’s a hole in the kitchen floor right now, so we’ll have to walk carefully tonight. I’ve got a team of guys coming tomorrow, they’re going to close it up.”

Steve sighed.

***

For three weeks, Steve forgot the warnings of his friends. September turned to October and the rains came. Water flowed from the mountains toward the valley, flooding the river. The hills glowed golden with the color-changing flora.

Steve woke up early on a Thursday, wrapped up in his sheets. A sliver of sky was visible between the curtain and the sill; it was the cool pink of an overcast sunrise, and everything was quiet. He rolled over in bed so that he was lying across the mattress sideways, gearing up to light the fireplace at the chill coming to rest over his exposed skin. Discontented, he lifted his head from the crook of his arm and then realized what he was doing: searching the air for sounds of life.

It had happened a few times in the past two weeks, Steve going to bed alone but waking up to noises from the kitchen, and, upon stumbling towards it, finding Tony there. _And drinking that paste he called coffee,_ Steve thought, and was dismayed when the affectionate thought brought with it a rush of dread. It was not Tony’s fault he was a workaholic—Steve had no room to complain—but when it kept him from sleeping, that’s when it became a problem.

Steve mourned this until he heard soft footsteps heading for the bedroom. He glanced over at the dark shape of the door.

With a soft creak, the bedroom door opened, creeping steps coming closer; there was an unmistakable sound of a hand trailing along the wallpaper. _No,_ thought Steve. His hair stood on end. _Tony never touches alcohol._ Clothes were dropped on the floor on his way to bed. It dipped and Steve caught the smell of cigarettes and distilled malt—the saloon.

Tony settled under the covers, looked to his right and saw the sunrise reflected in Steve’s open eyes.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Hi, you’re awake.”

“Yes.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

“Okay, Tony.”

“I love you,” Tony said and shuffled closer.

Steve closed his eyes. “And I love you.”

There were hands lifting Steve’s blanket, creeping to his side, and from there they wandered south. Steve’s thigh twitched at the coldness of them; it was quite a trip from the forge to their house on a cold morning such as this.

“Come on,” Tony mumbled, hands desperate, “nothing else is gonna shut my mind—”

“You’re drunk.”

“Semantics. We’re married, it’s as good as consent—”

Steve gripped the wayward hands, locking his fingers around both wrists, and brought Tony’s hands to his lips and kissed them slowly.

“Shh,” Steve said, and Tony’s head lolled onto Steve’s chest. He remained awake, though: the warmth of his breath turned the skin over Steve’s sternum into gooseflesh. Soon, Tony’s agitation waned enough for Steve to venture to let go of his wrists; instead bringing his hands up, to rub his thumbs into the stiff cords of muscle in his back, as knotted and full of kinks as ever.

When he ran his thumb around the scar on his back, which Steve knew to be matching the one he had at his front, at first touch, Tony tensed but eventually relaxed into—and within half an hour, the familiar slight snores were heard, but Steve felt wide awake—wide awake and worried.

Something was going on. Three weeks ago—it felt like much more, but it had been three, lonely weeks—Tony had told him how much he suffered from having nothing to do. And tonight, for the first time in two years, Tony had come home drunk. What did these things mean?

He thought of the trip he had turned down. Was Tony hurt by it? Would his boredom overcome their relationship completely, given time? _I’m losing him,_ he thought. _I don’t know how or why, but I know that I am._ That was what he was still thinking over when he got to work only couple hours later.

“Long night?” asked Bucky as soon as Steve came in. “Haven’t had one of those in a while.”

“Everything all right?” Sam asked, concerned.

“No, he’s here to grovel,” said Clint shrewdly. “You caught him in the act, didn’t you?”

“He doesn’t drink,” Steve said a little too quickly. Then, he reflected, “Actually, I don’t know. I didn’t believe you, so I wasn’t paying attention, but it’s not that.”

“So, we were wrong,” Sam agreed easily. “What’s he been busy with, then?”

Steve shrugged helplessly.

“Anything he can get his hands on, apparently. He’s been going on about this … armor he needs to build around us, whatever that means…”

“That was originally the last mayor’s idea, you know,” said Bucky, who along with Steve, had been here the longest. “During his last days in office, he sought to build a fence on the south border. I see the idea did not die when he left.”

“Isn’t your three-year anniversary soon?” Clint suggested after a beat. “Maybe your boy’s cooking up a surprise,” he said, and made a vulgar gesture that suggested what kind of surprise he was envisaging.

Steve made a noise of dissent through his nose.

“Ah, I forgot … everyone hates buying gifts to you because you never need anything,” said Sam with a sardonic smile.

“I didn’t grow up with much,” said Steve, now with a feeling of calmness settling into him. “Why should I need more things now?”

“But the things Tony does, man,” Sam said softly, and Steve knew he was thinking of his own, improved nickel-plated revolver.

The theory fit: the secrecy, the weird hours suddenly made sense. Still, it did not satisfy. Was this really why he came in so late? Bored, Tony had said. Yet he skipped meals, piled up project after project with a frenzy as though trying to reach a deadline—for what?

“All right, what _did_ happen yesterday to get you so spooked?” asked Sam, eyeing Steve over his cup of coffee.

Steve drew a deep breath.

“I,” he said, “I don’t think he finds the work here challenging enough. He said—he said he was … _bored_.”

Bucky’s expression of outrage was perfectly predictable; but why, Steve wondered, watching him, did Clint look almost equally invested? And why was Sam looking at Steve as though both angry and … was it possible? … a little pitying?

But before Steve had registered…

“See, he doesn’t _act_ bored,” Sam said. “Either he’s lying or he’s the most high-strung bored person I’ve ever seen. It’s Tony, though. His moods chance more often than the seasons. Trust me, Steve. All this will be forgotten in no time.”

***

Rainwater created a steady dripping sound in the background of Steve’s whittling. Wood shavings fell onto his feet after every rough scratch of his knife, turning dark in the muddy puddles pooling by his boots.

He looked back at the wooden figure, placed the blade upon it once more, rounded a corner, and stole a glance at the street for a second time; once again, it was empty, once again there was only mud to be seen. And on it went.

When he laid down his knife to blow off some of the dust, however, he caught the reflection of a figure, distorted though it was by the rippling water, and looked up. Steve might have startled, but there was no one else to see. He was perfectly composed by the time the figure revealed itself to be Tony, who was finally, impossibly, at home.

“Hey, don’t you have work today?” asked Tony, frowning at Steve. There was a cup of coffee in his hands and his curls were only mildly flattened by the weather.

“It’s Sunday,” said Steve, peering up at him from his seat on the step of their porch.

Tony seemed a bit worse to wear, but despite his messy hair and the now slightly improved pallor that had worried Steve, Tony appeared to be in one of his animated, outgoing moods. Steve took that to mean he had slept, and was glad until the realization it hadn’t been on their bed—but where, then?

“Is it?” Tony squinted, yawned and said, “Huh. What date is it?”

“Fifth of October?”

“It’s _October?”_

For a moment Tony looked as if Steve had spoken gibberish. He looked up at Steve, rainwater dripping down his nose, but his eyes were unfocused, and Steve suspected he was trying to count the days since he had last known the date.

“Yes,” he said, taking a sip while gazing at Steve, “I suppose it is.”

Tony was a good liar, but a rehearsed one. Eventually, if one paid attention, they were able to follow the patterns of it. Like how Tony’s eyes flicked past him and then back. If they held secrets, they were buried deep within. But there was also wariness in him, as if he was waiting or watching for something. It was the look he had had ever since June, when their marriage had suddenly, unalterably, started to careen towards the metaphorical rocks. Perhaps it was only the awareness of their uncharted future.

“Why are you so distracted nowadays?” Steve asked him, his inner tiredness creeping into his voice. “Are you planning something?”

But Tony answered, not with a playful reprimand, but with a violent start. The coffee in his mug sloshed around along the movement.

“Planning?” he asked, stepping under the porch, laying a casual hand on the rail. “Nope, I’m not planning on anything. There’s been a, uh, significant rise in jammed guns.”

“Jammed guns,” said Steve, starting to smile.

“Must be all this sand.”

“You planning on working today? On our date night?”

“Are you still checking up on me?” Tony asked. Despite his breezy note, he didn’t look it. Steve could tell that this loss of trust had come as a real blow to him. One night had changed everything.

“We are concerned.”

“So, you’re going to, what? Check the engine, replace a couple seals? Sure, pop the hood, go right ahead.”

“People aren’t made of metal, Tony.”

“If I ever find way,” Tony said, “I’ll make sure to be the first one. I’ll live forever.”

“That, I don’t doubt.” Steve glanced at the fresh burn marks in Tony’s hands. “You work yourself too hard, though.”

“Not when I’m the only one skilled enough to do these things. I feel—I feel this is what I was meant to do—there’s things that just need to be done. What I need is to build a suit of armor around us.”

“And what kind of man would let a paranoiac Mayor lure him into his megalomaniac schemes to protect the town he lives in?”

“That’s different,” Tony said quickly, and when Steve looked at him blankly, he went on: “You don’t know when to stop. And I care about you too much.”

“And you think I don’t?”

In answer, Tony looked about as exhausted as Steve had felt for weeks. Then, slowly, he started to drum his fingers on his chest. Funny, Steve thought, how his scar was under that exact spot. He remembered Bruce discussing a medical condition called phantom pain—was this it?

“I may have gone to the saloon the other night,” Tony said, apropos of nothing.

“Yes,” Steve said slowly. “Clint told me.”

Then he wished he had not divulged the last bit.

“Really?” Tony had gone red from both anger and embarrassment. “That’s why you’re all—”

“Yes,” said Steve.

“But it’s just—”

“It’s because you’re scaring me,” Steve said; the truth felt raw. “I know where the story ends if you don’t stop.”

In answer, Tony turned very pale.

“Some of us are doomed to repeat history,” he said stiffly. “If you didn’t know what you signed up for, you shouldn’t have married me.”

“If you think I regret our marriage, you’re not telling the truth,” Steve replied, affronted.

Tony jerked as though the words ‘telling the truth’ had been three separate slaps. “Are you calling me a liar?”

Steve swallowed and shied from Tony’s furiously squinted eyes. The walls of their home, and the still pale clay in between the thick logs, proved a good substitute. He had done the seal himself, not knowing the married bliss that had spurred him forward would expire before the clay had had the chance to darken with age and wear.

“Of course not, Tony,” he replied, not raising his gaze. “I wasn’t … hold on.” Steve had just seen Tony back away from him from the corner of his vision. “Can we … wait, don’t go. Tony? We’re just worried about you.”

“Oh boy,” Tony said sharply.

“How _long_ have you been drinking?”

Steve knew at once, from the way Tony ripped open the front door and strode inside, that he had made a terrible mistake in saying this. Tony had now reached the dining room table and stood there, facing the bedroom door with stiffly set shoulders.

“I see,” he said.

“See what?”

“Why don’t you just say it?” Tony challenged, swiveling around.

Steve feigned ignorance which irritated Tony; he had always had little patience for willful stupidity.

“Drinking isn’t a crime, Sheriff,” he said coldly, slammed his cup onto the trestle table, and stepped onto one of their dining chairs in front of their fireplace to rise face to face with their grandfather clock. Around the chair, small mechanical parts still littered the floor from an old project Steve had loath to remove, should it discourage Tony to come over less.

There was a warning there. A request to let it go, yet Steve couldn’t. “I thought we told each other everything,” he said.

In the following silence, the pendulum of the clock ticked and clacked. Tony’s eyes followed its movement, mutinously quiet.

“Thought wrong, then, didn’t you,” he said finally, picking up a winding key and a knife from the mantelpiece.

Steve winced; Tony was good at everything; even cruelty, but never unprompted. _Tic…toc._

“To tell the truth, Steve,” Tony said, not meeting Steve’s eyes, “I’m not happy here.”

It was what Steve had suspected and feared him to be feeling. The entire house seemed to be spinning in slow, askew circles, and Steve wondered if his childhood shortness for breath had returned because this felt similar to not having enough air in him. _Tic…toc._

“What do you mean ‘not happy’?” asked Steve, sounding wretched. “What is this?”

“A split,” said Tony, perfunctorily. “It’s more common than you think, no need to make a big deal out of it.”

Steve blinked at him helplessly, throat tight.

“Don’t feel bad about it,” Tony said hastily, stepping down from his physical high ground. “Look, I’m not the most open of all persons. That goes without saying, and I’m working on that. But I haven’t been entirely upfront with you, and I just want to … _communicate_ things through.”

“But, you’re … you don’t … divorce?”

When he finally got enough air to squeeze the word out, they appeared in such a quiet voice that Tony could have pretended not to hear them over the sound of rain lashing against the windows. He didn’t. Tony held his eye contact firmly, eyes illuminated by the grey day, and nodded.

Steve sagged against the wall behind him. Tony’s fingers twitched.

“Steve, I—it’s not—”

_Tic…toc._

“I—um,” Tony said, and rubbed his temple. “What was I saying? Can you give me a second, this … it’s like Chinese water torture. I’m trying to—”

Looking disgruntled, Tony, from his back pocket, took out an oily rag which he stuffed around the pendulum. On the next swing, it rang out a feeble, muffled _to...c!_ as Tony hopped onto their dining table, tucking a leg under himself.

“Do you know how many times I practiced this?” he demanded from Steve, gesturing wildly with his hands. “But if I never got to tell you what … And this is already further than I got in my head half the time … I mean, pretty far further. I think it’d be best if you knew my reasons. I’m not expecting you to … Look, I’m just going to call it as I see it—”

“Please, stop,” said Steve, and Tony’s teeth clacked together.

They stared at each other. There had been something else than an apology in Tony’s eyes, and Steve was overcome by the fear what Tony would use as excuses to spare him.

“I have never called things off with anyone before,” Steve said and looked down at his lap, then swallowed with difficulty. “Is this how it usually goes?”

Tony huffed out a breath of surprise. “Oh, Steve.”

“What?” Steve asked, genuinely puzzled.

“You’re just—you’re so—you have no idea how to act in a relationship, do you?” Tony said abruptly, and then shook his head, “I don’t know why I thought this would be easy.”

The rag was shaken loose and the tic-toc started anew. Tony slid down from the table and placed a hand onto the meaty part of Steve’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. With his eyes firmly on the walls, Tony said, “It’s not your fault.”

As badly as he must have hurt Tony, thought Steve, he would not expose Steve’s failures to his face. He was still looking out for him; just as he had done these past three years. Somehow the though brought Steve closer to tears than Tony’s confirmation. Instead, Steve straightened back on his feet, pulled his jacket on and left the house.

His thoughts, too, were hurtling through space; _it had not happened … it could not have happened…_

Terror tore at Steve’s heart … he had to get back to the house and he had to talk to Tony … somehow this must have all been a big misunderstanding … he could reverse what had happened if they just talked things through … Tony could not be tired of him…

He did not stop until his boots sunk into the mud of the riverbank, where burrs stuck to his light brown pants: the yellowed hay swayed in wind; the swift, rushing current sped around the bend created by their town, and the water looked very grey reflecting the skies overhead. Despite all this, there lingered a silence and stillness, as shivers stared to rock up and down Steve’s body, as his hair and clothes got wetter and wetter until he did not know whether the moisture dripping from his chin was from the rain or his tears.


	2. A Dubious Request

When he looked back, even months later, Steve found he had little memories of the Monday after. It was as though his life had turned over one time too many to keep count. The collections he did have were very painful. The worst, perhaps, was the absence of Tony that took place right after his return to the empty house, and the untouched side of their bed that kept drawing his gaze like a dead body.

It was with heavy heart that Steve packed the fresh eggs that morning. Their chickens, that had held their tails down for days, letting rainwater drip down their brown backs, now clucked at him with their tails held high as they watched him pick up barely half a dozen eggs, as though priding themselves upon being able to count to two.

 _He’s not coming back,_ Steve reminded himself. _You weren’t fast enough._ Talking this way, he placed the freshly laid eggs, quickly cooling in the frigid air, into a carton. _Nothing will ever be the same now._ And that was the grim truth of it, Steve knew, because in a small community such as this, once their separation had become public knowledge, it was bound to affect more than just him and Tony.

Stepping out of the henhouse, keeping his eyes averted from his home, Steve set afoot toward work, although he did not know quite how he could face his friends again. But his misery did not last long: at that moment, a figure came stalking from behind the corner of his house. Tall and dark, the man’s appearance had Steve’s hand flying to his holster. Only then did he recognize the glint of metal as a pickaxe.

A miner. Steve felt his muscles unwound, though he kept an eye out, too, for the rifle hanging loosely at the man’s side.

“Good morning,” Steve offered when they were even.

The man said nothing.

He brushed past Steve, his scowl emphasizing the scar on his brow which cast a severe shadow upon his forehead. Steve clung tighter onto the eggs. One pace, two, three, and then on fourth, the man glanced back, and at being caught looking, hastily turned away.

Suspicion risen, Steve observed his retreating back with squinted eyes. Looking back where the man came from, there were shallow impressions on the ground from his boots. Steve trailed them backwards; the little lane along which he was walking curved and joined the main street where the trail disappeared.

The ground here had become tough; wet and shot through with wheel tracks and shoe marks, it had hardened into ankle-breaking bumps during the cold night. People were crisscrossing in front of him from one building to another, and Steve found himself wondering if they knew, could they sense, what Steve had lost? As Steve crossed the road, he glanced over his shoulder; nobody was looking at him. The river and the mountains looked the same. Was it only _him_ who had changed?

Next, Steve stared at the forge as his steps took him closer to the remote edge of the town. He was waiting for the moment when Tony would come out of the shop, proving he hadn’t already left without a word. However, Tony did not appear then, and after a while, Steve found himself simply gazing at it out of nostalgy, wondering if the strength of his feelings might penetrate the walls, that Tony would somehow know Steve was thinking of them, not holding a grudge.

Then, skirting the Sheriff’s Office, familiar heelprints reappeared; now met by another line of feet, fairly close together and just as fresh. The incoming tracks separated soon but had come together from the direction of the forge.

Steve bit his lip, swaying on the cusp of gathering enough courage to take the leap, when a voice shouted, “Sheriff!”

Steve flinched.

An older woman was rushing to him with a rustle of skirts, her bonnet staying atop her silvery hair just by the bow under her chin. She was already speaking, full steam ahead, before she had reached him.

“—and those terrible miners _everywhere_. Oh, you just wait if they step a foot on my porch—oh! Are those fresh eggs?”

Her hand flied to the bow, untying and retying it nervously with fluttering fingers.

“You know,” she started and licked her lips while looking at the eggs, “my poor little Geraldine hasn’t been the same since Gwyneth died. Only nine this month.”

Numbly, Steve thrust forward the carton.

“Oh, surely I shouldn’t—but if you insist—thank you, dear,” she simpered. “Do you have time? I’ve bought a new tea set since the last time we met. It’s of course not as fine as yours—” she sighed somewhat wistfully. “Finest china I’ve ever seen. Never quite got Mr. Rogers to divulge their origin. Oh! Speaking of which … you should ask him to come, too, sometime. I have it on very good authority that honey and ginger are good for us insomniacs,” she said and nodded meaningfully at Steve. “All that smoke coming out of that chimney day and night…”

Finally, she seemed to pause for breath, and Steve, who had stiffened at the mention of Tony, got a word in.

“I would be delighted, ma’am, but—”

“Oh, I see,” she said. “But what do I know? I have too much time in my hands, that’s all. Way too much. And a migraine. That can really do a woman’s head in.”

“I do apologize, ma’am. But we are extremely busy,” he said and started inching toward the Office door.

“Oh, well, but—”

“Sorry!” Steve threw over his shoulder, arm on the handle. “Good day, Ms. Althea.”

Inside, Steve found Clint and Sam sat close together at the same desk. Clint was manfully assaulting a piece of chewy salt pork; Sam was staring resolutely at the desk. Both seemed a little forced in their conversation with him; Steve suspected he had interrupted them in private talk. They sat there, with only the sound of Clint’s meat snapping off in chunks, until Steve couldn’t take it anymore.

“Did any of you see a miner?”

“I did,” said Clint and burped. “Had a big breakfast at the saloon.”

“Armed?”

“Aren’t they all, open carry is legal. But a Sharp’s carbine, though. What do you think? Our quota for weapon thieves is thirty-one this year, Coulson’s about to sprain a wrist.”

The honest answer was that Steve was particularly aware and illogically suspicious of anything and everything this morning due to certain circumstances he did not wish to disclose. Sam, however, seemed to gather the worst from his face.

“Think we’re being watched?” he asked shrewdly.

His mouth now full of pork, Clint’s eyes roved over them in turns.

Steve thought back to the twin-tracks separating in front of the Office and replied, “Just a hunch. I’ll come back to you once one of them shadows us to the outhouse.”

“They may try,” said Clint, sounding morose as he swallowed. “But the day I’m killed taking a squat will be the day hell freezes over.”

But Steve was not interested in _if;_ he wanted to discuss _why_.

“I saw he had come from—” his throat tightened “—from this end of the town.”

There was a sticky moment where they all sensed Tony’s name in the offing anyway; the heavy silence made it clear to Steve that Tony had been the topic even before he appeared. Clint started polishing his rifle’s patch box with a shirt sleeve.

“How, er, how’s Tony?” asked Sam coaxingly.

Steve’s insides clenched like a fist. He could not tell them the truth. They would find soon enough, too soon… He toed off a day-old chunk of caked mud from the side of his boot to avoid answering. In the corner of his vision, he saw the two share a long glance.

Steve sat low in his chair, feeling more humiliated by the second. He was afraid that all of this was his fault. Yesterday seemed like a long time ago: today he might have been eighteen again, the one with a weak chest and a newspaper stuffed inside his hat to keep it from sinking too low.

“So,” Sam said, in a rather falsely cheery tone, “what’s for lunch?”

In the end, they settled to send forward an invitation to meet at Thor’s, a far-flung saloon belonging to a tall, Scandinavian man, whose place gave the air of an ancient stave church, with its dark wood floor, high arched ceiling and painted murals on all walls.

“You don’t mind Natasha asked Tony, do you?” asked Sam in a troubled voice, as they set off down the street. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two but—"

“It’s fine,” said Steve, his voice quite calm even though he felt hollow.

And, indeed, as the saloon door creaked open before them, Tony was revealed, seated at a table, clutching a coffee between his hands.

“Hello, Steve,” he said.

Steve felt breathless. “Hi.”

Steve thought he looked drawn, even ill, but although Steve watched him closely for signs of discomfort, only the red goggle-creases marring the corners of his eyes were found.

“It’d love to sit and chat,” Tony said quickly, emptying his mug and pulling his jacket around his shoulders. “But work waits for no man. Hey, thanks for the coffee and compassion, Varangian.”

Thor, who had just come from the backroom bringing a scent of a warm meal with him, paused on his way to greet Steve.

“You won’t stay for lunch?” asked Thor, looking troubled. “Steve’s great warrior friend has yet to come—”

“No, no, no. I’m working.”

Tony hurried past Thor to the door where Steve still stood. He had his hand on the handle when Steve found his words.

“Don’t leave on my account,” he pleaded.

Tony watched him appraisingly, looking as though he was not sorry to depart the scene.

“Sorry,” he still said in the end and made to leave but was thwarted by Bucky’s arrival.

“Hey, hey! Slow down, doll,” he said, taking Tony by his bony shoulder. “You don’t get to leave when we’re trying to fatten you up. Thor’s got cottage pie.”

Tony backed into Steve trying to escape his clutches; the saloon floor was now a sea of standing people waiting to be seated, all watching at the scene taking place that would determine their chosen table size. Thor was looking eagerly at Tony, potholders gripped in both large hands; Sam appeared to be fascinated by one of the arches; and Bucky was still blocking the door, as though showing he would bodily force the two of them to talk if need be.

Seeing no room to escape, Tony relented.

“I’ll sit at the head,” he claimed loudly, and the change of tracks into this new unflappable persona happened as if someone had used a railroad switch.

While the end of the table was the most coveted seat, for one could cut their food without cramming their arms, Steve noted, though, that this also put him in a position where he would not be in contact with Steve on either side.

Separated by a spot they had left for Natasha, Steve observed Tony surreptitiously whenever someone leaned over for another serving of pie. He was often quiet for a spell, then would laugh at a joke. Once, at a time like this, he met Steve’s eyes and lifted his brows upward; Steve watched him until he was lost to sight by Thor’s massive form and gazed into space until food arrived.

It was not as though he was unprepared, thought Steve, as he watched the panels of the wall, and an especially colorful painted horse galloping through what looked like a poppy field; he had had in inkling of this while on his walk yesterday. But he was not sure how he felt about it … he and Tony were too upset to look at each other, let alone talk to each other; what if this became too much to bear? Could their friendships survive it? Steve barely remembered the years when the seven of them had not been so close; he did not enjoy the thought of needing to bridge the distances between them twice. And then, what it Tony left? What if he returned back East and changed his name back to Potts, and it became excruciating to be in the others’ presence, so that the group split for good?

“Never thought I would miss your pining,” Bucky said, breaking Steve’s trail of thought. “This, whatever this is, is worse. Way worse.”

Steve tore his gaze away from the pony. Then he heard Tony laugh and his eyes stayed glued on him again until the saloon door opened, and their last dinner guest came in.

“Sorry, boys. It’s a busy day,” said Nat, striding to their table, and sitting down on what little bench space there was next to Steve. Through their clothes, their legs met from hip to ankle. “Comfortable?” she asked wryly.

Steve squirmed, very much uncomfortable. Nearby, Tony bit off, hard, a large junk off his peppermint stick with an audible snap.

“Steve,” he said around the bite, rising up, “a word.”

Steve felt his chest swell so quickly he was surprised to find his feet still firmly on the floor: Tony had laid on the table his left hand, which had previously been held out of sight, and Steve spied the ring still in its usual place. Incredibly, impossibly, hope surged inside him.

Around the table, Steve met the looks of his friends, ranging from amused to knowing. Again, his conscience squirmed.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough, “sure.”

Clint’s whistle followed them to the streets, but Tony did not set course to their home. Instead he walked towards the forge.

“What are we going this way for?” Steve asked as they passed the empty Sheriff’s Office.

“I have something to give you,” Tony said shortly; Steve recognized the hunted glance Tony shot at the world around them: he had not told, either.

When at last they reached the forge, Tony took his key to the lock, shouldered the wide doors open and slipped inside into the unlit room. And just a moment later, he came out with a bundle of familiar fabric. Steve’s face fell. He, who from Tony’s serious expression had expected something much more serious than this, stared down at the fabric in bafflement.

“Something I’ve worked on,” Tony told him as he opened the folds to reveal the dark blue jacket. “It was … it was supposed to be an anniversary present, but, uh … yeah,” Tony trailed off. “Throw it away, tear it to shreds … I don’t care. Sentimentality isn’t part of my winning personality, but it just might be yours.”

Steve faltered. It was his regulated U. S. army winter jacket—or, rather, it _used_ to be; Tony had ripped off its Captain insignias, leaving the dark blue fabric smooth and untouched underneath.

Tony sighed. “It’s out of line, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s all right.”

“So, it’s okay?”

“Yeah.”

The jacket looked stiffer and heavier than Steve remembered but it had been collecting dust tucked away in the corner of his trunk, wrapped around his medal for fifteen years.

“Take it. Just take it,” Tony said sharply. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about letting me take a look at your gun. I may even have something better in stock.”

On instinct, Steve looked down at his hip where his Colt Dragoon laid in its holster. “It’s served me well,” he defended.

“With or without the jamming?” Tony asked shrewdly.

Steve, lost in banter, grinned at him. “Why limit myself?”

Tony’s mouth did something complicated then, which might have been a smile given time. Steve could not help noticing his lips were tainted green by the peppermint stick.

And for a brief moment, Steve allowed himself the impossible hope that Tony would stay and talk. However, once Steve couldn’t delay taking the coat any longer, he saw Tony’s awkward gesturing that signified this was the end of the conversation.

With his very being, Steve wished he could return to that moment again, when Tony had longed to go for a trip. Would things be different if he had agreed? If he hadn’t preferred work over pleasure, would he still have Tony?

“Good talk,” said Tony, and in passing, tapped Steve’s chest with the back of his hand. Steve watched him all the way down the street, not moving, and only when he was out of sight, did he lift his free hand to trace the chaste touch, puzzled.

Steve had never really been allowed to be young; war detached one from such concerns. Still, people untouched by war seemed younger and older than him, both at once. Steve had thought he had seen some of that imposed maturing in Tony. But Tony back then had been too young for war. Why, then, had he seen the same fatigue mirrored in his husband’s eyes at the sight of his old uniform?

***

Steve woke up at half past one on Tuesday morning. He hadn’t dreamt of Tony—as far as he remembered—but as he opened his eyes in the wainscoted box of their bedroom, Steve was thinking of him all the same. There had to be something more. There had to be a way to make this whole story fit together. Anything, but Tony growing bored of him, which was plainly the conclusion Tony had wanted Steve to reach. Steve didn’t want to think it; the thought made him feel sixteen and invisible again.

A noise met his ears and broke the inert, slumbering quality of the house. It might have been just the whistle of wind through a crack in the boards or the cluck of his chickens. But then—

“Help! _Anybody_ —quickly!”

Steve bolted upright on the bed. Blindly throwing on clothes over his linen nightshirt, he pinpointed the noise to the river nearby, and soon was sprinting towards it, gun at the ready. He hurtled around the last building between him and the water, and there he saw his bullets were for naught; he couldn’t shoot his way out of this one.

Their bridge—wooden, slightly green from years of grime, and leaning slightly to the left because of a stiff winter eight years previously—was on fire.

On the riverbank, townsmen had already formed a long line that moved like a wave as men and women passed pails of water between them down from the river up into the towering flames. But the fire was too strong, their attempts too futile, and their pails too small. The bridge blazed for another minute in front of the town’s disbelieving eyes, until finally collapsing into the river, leaving only smoke curling in the air. The night turned dark again.

Steve’s equally dark mood was temporarily lightened by the appearance at his side of an unhurt Bucky, who was holding a damp, balled cloth in his fist.

“That ain’t no natural fire,” he panted.

“Someone lit in on purpose,” Steve agreed. “Coil oil? Where’s Clint?”

“Up in his nest,” said Bucky, both glancing to the roof of the highest building in town: the two-story schoolhouse with its cupola. “Sam is securing the perimeter.”

The smoke was hardly stirring in the still air of the night; it was floating in wisps over the river, only moving once a charred piece of bridge broke off and fell into the black water. People in their robes and jackets thrown over nightclothes fluttered anxiously to and fro; figures briefly illuminated by the streetlamps. They heard a snatch of a sob or a sigh from detached conversations around them; then those quieted, too.

“Well, it isn’t too bad, considering,” Bucky said. “No one lives on a bridge. I say this is done by someone who thought it would be quite the joke to see— _good Lord!_ Look!”

Steve swiveled round. Now that the big fire had fed itself to its end, he, too, was able to distinguish a subtler, pinkish glow at the distant boundary of the town, burning brighter than the gaslights. Another fire, near…

“Isn’t that Tony’s forge—?” Bucky didn’t get to finish. Steve was already running, deaf to Bucky’s cries of, “Steve, wait—God damn it!”

Steve thundered past the houses, running the length of the main street and skidded to a halt in front of the burning building. It looked deceivingly calm up front, but from the cracks of the barn-like double doors, smoke was trickling out and billowing about the slanted roof. Steve took off his jacket and pressed it to his nose.

“Tony!” he cried. “Tony!”

He shouldered his way inside and burned his hand on the padlock but continued forward with single-minded focus.

His boots cut a track through the ash the flames had spit all over the room that—apart from the fire—was as it should be; there was the nest of tongs and hammers on the soot-blacked wall above the heart, unevenly cobbled floor, and the back room, where Tony had a bed, was glowing hot as a furnace; it was filled with orange-glowing smoke. Inside, the cabinet where Tony stored his prints and sketches was just a smoldering pile of embers in the middle of the darkest circle on the floor—a sign of the fire’s origin.

From another room, he heard Bucky call, “Steve!”

Something crashed. A burning shelf had collapsed. It sent a bottle careening towards the floor where it shattered; tiny fragments of glass and a shower of sharp-smelling liquid spread about; the fire almost looked like it danced as it hungrily licked its way up the airborne droplets. Heat burned at his side, smoke stung in his eyes and his vision swum. The flames, eating up the curtains of the alcove, were too tall to see if the bed was vacant or not.

“Tony,” he gasped, and tried again, “Tony!”

He couldn’t get enough breath into his lungs anymore; he was being pressed very hard from all directions; there were iron bands tightening around his chest; the roar of the fire pushed against his eardrums and then—

A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind and Steve’s hurt hand came to clutch it in reflex. The throbbing palm sent a searing twinge up his arm, and the hands on his shoulders used this moment of weakness to tug him out of the forge.

Outside, where the October air felt cold and fresh after the suffocating blaze, more hands fought him as he tried to get back, to save Tony.

“Steve,” said a voice. “ _Steve_. It’s all right. He’s not in there.”

Not in there … safe, not dead … and the thing that was burning was just the empty forge…

Steve stopped struggling.

“There you are,” sighed Sam. There was a sheen of sweat gleaming on his features. “Better call Doc to check that hand of yours.”

Steve was on the main street, where people were just starting to gather with pails, standing between Sam and Bucky, who had tied his wet pillowslip tight around the lower half of his face. There were smudges of black soot where his eyes were uncovered. They looked furious.

“Do you have any idea how stupid you are?” Bucky thundered. “If Tony had kept gunpowder in there, your ass would have been blown up sky high.”

There was only one word Stave focused on. “Where’s Tony?”

“Well,” said Sam uncomfortably. “We don’t exactly know … Natasha said he closed the forge shortly after sunset.”

That was hours ago. It only served to make Steve more uneasy. What if they were mistaken? Was Tony in the forge after all, beyond their help? If not, where had he gone? Not home. The saloons? Should he ask Natasha if Tony had taken a room there? Or, thought Steve, recalling Tony’s presence at dinner, would he more likely be housed at Thor’s?

“Oh, hey,” Sam said, relieved, and Steve knew he wanted to change the subject. “Here comes Bruce.”

The gathered crowd had parted as the stocky form of their doctor marched past, carrying his medicine bag. Steve closed his eyes. The smell of smoke lingered on his clothes; it made his fears horribly vivid.

“You again,” Bruce sighed. Steve opened his eyes: Bruce looked harried, resigned. Steve mustered a tired smirk but broke into a coughing fit the likes of which he had not felt since his childhood. Thus, Steve was escorted into a nearby porch and there he looked up into Bruce’s pinched, grey face.

“Is everyone all right?”

“Yes, and mostly unhurt,” answered Bruce as he took Steve’s burnt hand in his, and shot a disapproving look down at Steve, “but not for a lack of trying.”

Steve looked down as well. There was a scarlet slash in the shape of a padlock burnt across the width of his palm. He could also see where parts of his body hair had been singed off as Bruce slathered his hand in oil and put dressing on it.

“Later today,” Bruce grunted as he staggered to his feet, still offering instructions with a clinical tone, “disinfect it well with vinegar and paint it over with butter or powder it with flour. Repeat every night until it starts to itch.”

And he left with squelching shoes; the brimming pails had spilled and sloshed on all their trouser legs and feet while quelling the fire in a hurry.

Steve glanced back at the forge. The fire had spread into all rooms; flames licking behind the two windows at the side caused the building to look alive and menacing, like a beast with glowing eyes. As he considered the flames, he saw Bucky silhouetted against the blaze. His shoulders were slumped in defeat.

“Come on, Cap,” said Sam, tugging at his arm. “Up to bed. I’ll make sure you don’t collapse on the way there.”

They made their way through the town across the still rutted streets. Steve’s deep lungful’s of air were rattled by his starting shivers. It was suddenly very cold; sweat, which had clung to his skin, was now drying and cooling down.

“Here,” said Sam, shrugging off his jacket; Steve didn’t know where he had lost his. “I better not see you run into any more fires with that on.”

“Thanks.”

Steve had lost count of the time, but the sky showed no sign of daybreak when they arrived at his house, hands groping for the switch Tony had taught him to light their new lamp with—only, after clicking it several times on and off, on and off, the room remained unlit.

“I think the smoke got into my eyes. It’s dark,” Sam remarked from behind Steve.

“It’s not your eyes,” Steve told him, and rushed in.

Steve made his way into the kitchen blindly to unearth their old oil lamp from the back of a cupboard; he lit a match and opened the burner. In the new light glowing through the shade, he observed his surroundings. Nothing was amiss.

“Tony?” he shouted.

No answer.

“Steve?” Sam called from around the corner. “What’s going on? I have a bad feeling about this…”

“Me, too,” said Steve, walking back to Sam. Here, the beam of light travelled from wall to wall, illuminating the ceiling. And then it fell upon a bulb-less lamp.

Nothing made sense.

“I can check the saloons,” offered Sam.

“Sure,” said Steve, though he felt that, too, would result in another dead end. While Sam made his exit, Steve wandered into the bedroom for a chance of clothes.

In the bedroom, all was well—until he opened the wardrobe and noticed what he in his hurry had missed: half its contents were gone.

Steve swayed where he stood. The dark, empty room seemed to close around him; he couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing at first. He did not know what to think at all, except that it would be a kind of treachery to believe the worst too soon.

Steve didn’t get the time, though. Sooner than he could blink, the door burst open.

“Steve,” cried Bucky. “We’re cut off. Clint tried to send off a warning about an arsonist. Turns out, telegraph’s dead. Someone’s cut the wire.”

All at once, the fact that the bridge had been burned (and the forge possibly still ablaze), so sorely troubling only a quarter of an hour ago, recurred to Steve now with a disconcerting novelty. The urgency of the situation waved at him like a salvation—a distraction.

“So, Sam just left for the next township over to give the news in person. Likely he’ll take a little longer since he’s gonna have to cross the river on Red Wing’s back and it’s flooding…you alright?”

“Tony’s gone,” said Steve.

“Gone? What do you mean by ‘gone’? He wasn’t at the saloon? You don’t think something’s happened, do you? Have you found a note or something…?”

A note. Steve had spent the moments before Bucky’s arrival rushing about and looking for things that weren’t there instead of things that might be new. The thought of a note, some communication, provided a surge of hope against all reason. Maybe there was nothing he had missed. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to know what this meant and it all would be explained to him. Tony can’t have just expected him to understand…

They searched the place and found nothing. Frustration and bitter disappointment welled up inside Steve; he marched back into the bedroom, but right at the door, he heard Bucky gasp in a breath so suddenly, Steve felt his stomach perform a complicated backflip; he spun back, half expecting to see a note nailed to a wall, but again there was nothing there.

 _“What?”_ Steve demanded, half-angry, half-disappointed. “Did you find something?”

Standing at the center of the house, Bucky shook his head, looking pale in the wake of his revelation.

“Steve,” he said with a small voice, “what if he was taken?”

“Taken?” Steve asked him and was surprised his voice sounded so calm as he stepped back into the bedroom. “I don’t think so.”

“You mean he’s—?”

“Yes, and taken all his possessions with him,”

If only he had woken up earlier … if only he had not been so frozen at the sight of their bridge, he could have spotted the forge fire earlier, and he would still have some aspect of Tony with him … _anything…_

Steve, frustrated at his own ineptitude, carded his fingers through his knotted hair. It was then that he was suddenly reminded of the presence of the ring. So, he thought while he gazed at it, not all things were lost. Swallowing painfully a cough that was about to break free, he thrust his hand in the wardrobe and threw on a new shirt.

“Steve, no!” Bucky protested. “I’m sure you ought to be resting.”

“I had my rest, _you_ had the night shift,” Steve said as he ducked past Bucky’s mutinously set shoulders. “No offense but you look terrible. I’m fine. I’ll go to the Sheriff’s Office, you catch some sleep.”

“You know whose behavior you’re starting to remind me of?” Bucky shouted after him when Steve made his leave, buttoning his shirt as sped through the house. “Tony’s! And after three years of forcing him to take some time off for himself, you’d think the message would’ve got across to your thick head too, punk.”

“Then so be it, jerk!” Steve yelled back, and let the front door bang shut after him, leaving Bucky to find his own way out of Tony and his house; Steve desired nothing more than to get away from him.

***

The shock of losing the bridge and their forge hung over the town in the days that followed. Urged by necessity, anyone capable of holding a tool had partaken in the project to build a one-man raft to move produce across river, but its modest mechanics had not held well against the unyielding force of the current—a fact which was part of the reason why their smith’s absence was met with much scorn. Steve still startled every morning upon seeing the blackened skeletons of the fire on his way to work where his deputies kept shooting worried glances behind his back.

“Steve,” Sam said on the third day, “you’re running yourself ragged. I’m worried about you—we’re worried about you.”

“I eat, I sleep, I do my job properly,” Steve argued back. “Eight hours last night…”

Then he thought of his reoccurring nightmare about Tony burning, arriving too late, only to hug his badly burned, lifeless body against his chest: they did not need to know the details.

“…and the night before that.”

“Good,” said Sam although he looked dubious. “Just making sure the town gossip isn’t what’s keeping you up.”

Without realizing it, Steve was digging his nails into his arms as if he was trying to ward off physical pain. On the job, he had gotten hurt more times than he could count; during war, he had been shot through the stomach; broken ribs; even this sleepy town had left its mark in the form of a few scars. But never, until this moment, had he felt so aware of his own mortality.

Their investigation had so far lead to the conclusion that both fires had been lit on purpose. And his fury at this faceless pyromaniac broke over him now, like a flood, drowning out every other feeling. Out of naivety they had thought they were on top of everything that happened in this small town and convinced themselves the suspect would be caught within a week; but three days in, there were no clues, no witnesses, no evidence. Whoever did it had left them to grope in the darkness, to wrestle with unknown and unseen threats alone and unaided: nothing was explained, nothing was given freely, and now, the town was making a suspect out of Tony.

Steve swallowed; his voice seemed to have deserted him. He did not think he could stand to discuss Tony. It had been painful enough to hear the whispers, even worse to listen to the others’ comments on them.

“Do they not have better things to talk about?” said Bucky hotly. “Tony _fixed_ things for them. How can anyone in their right mind—”

“They aren’t,” Clint said. “They are scared off their wits and this happens to be the juiciest piece of gossip in years—oh, and that reminds me, Steve.” Clint shot a look towards the open font door. “Fury’s been trying to fish information out of Bucky and me. About Tony’s whereabouts. He’ll try Sam or you next. Coulson came snooping as well but when he realized you’re the one with the answers, he dropped it. Not Fury, though … I think he lost all tact along with that eye of his.”

Clint’s prediction became true within a few hours. Shortly after dinner time, half the town was found gathered in the townhall’s courtroom to discuss the rebuilding of the bridge. There, Fury detached Steve from the others by telling him about a just-received report from the Denver prison. Once he had Steve cornered in a tiny corner of a hallway, he started.

“You’re a hard man to get a hold on, Rogers,” he began in a casual tone. “One would think you’re guarded better than the damn Fort McHenry.”

“I’ve been busy, that’s all,” said Steve. “The people are rather distressed at a time like this and it is my duty to help.”

A flurry of exclamations rose from the hall they had left behind where, judging from the shouts, they had just been told the town hadn’t got the money to build a modern steel bridge, and wouldn’t receive any help from near towns.

“Steel,” Fury sneered. “It’s like they’ve forgotten that our best metalworker is missing in action.”

Steve had been expecting the topic to come up ever since Clint warned him, but he found himself tensing as he forced himself to look Fury directly in the eyes, noticing as he did so that the patch was definitely Tony’s handiwork, from the quality of the leather to the neat stitching. This did not help.

“Do you know where your husband is at the moment, Sheriff?” Fury barked, abandoning all pretense now. “Your deputies fed me some real thick horseshit about him visiting an ill aunt and that he would be back when she’s better.”

“It’s Tony’s business where he wants to travel. We’re no longer together—”

“’No longer together’?” Fury echoes ruthlessly. “You’re married and you just…decided not to be?”

“I don’t see how it’s _your_ business,” Steve said flatly. “But sure, sir, I can go to Coulson and ask him to draft us the paperwork for an official divorce.”

“You do that, it won’t undo the damage done. People have looked between their fingers when you’ve let one or two slip out now and again, your belief that even the worst of men is entitled to a fair trial…but I won’t pretend this doesn’t shake our trust in you—and, therefore, this town’s trust in _me.”_

“Tony is my husband,” said Steve, “not a wanted man.”

He handed Fury back the ‘report’ that they were supposed to be discussing, which was merely a copy of the new bridge’s costs in the meticulous handwriting of Ms. Hill. Fury accepted it with a rather unnerving return to his earlier casualness as he watched Steve make his way back to the meeting.

“Oh, and Rogers,” Fury spoke to Steve’s retreating back, “now that you don’t have your usual engagements, you wouldn’t mind dipping your toes into something big? I’ve heard some rumors about the man who killed Thaddeus Ross.”

Steve let the hallway door slip from his grip. Action was all he had wanted these past days, to fill this desire to do something desperate and risky; now, it was being offered to him on a silver platter.

“Yes,” he said quickly, “anything to help.”

“Sweet of you,” Fury praised impassively.

“Sheriff?” The hallway door opened and bumped into Steve’s shoulder. A harried-looking man apologized, and continued, “A fight has broken out, we need you at the courtroom.”

“Right,” Steve sighed, and that was the end of the conversation, for a while.

Steve hadn’t thought Fury would pull through on his promise so quickly, but the next day, he found himself trudging up two flights of stairs to Fury’s office, wondering what he was about to walk into. A man had been killed. Was Fury really being paranoid? Couldn’t the man have been killed by chance? Who would have wanted Thaddeus Ross dead?

But someone had, someone had succeeded in killing him and had not got caught. The men who had killed Lincoln were supposed to be locked away, if not dead … having acted alone, and without a country-shaking masterplan to destroy America…

Steve got a shock to find himself at the top. From there, he walked along a short passage, at the very end of which a door stood ajar and cast a long strip of gold across the carpeted floor.

“Ma’am,” he greeted Ms. Hill who was recording figures near the door and walked by her to open further the door to surreptitiously glance inside.

Steve had visited the office once when it had been inhabited by its previous occupant. In Mayor Philips’ days, the walls had been covered with thick, gilded-framed portraits of former mayors, frilled brocade curtains, and on the wall behind an enormous desk, had been a painting of his son. Now, however, the office was bare of any personal touches, and trying to build a character from this space that was more stripped than a monk’s cell, was akin to trying to catch smoke with bare hands.

On Steve’s right, though, he had just caught a glimpse of a framed paper with an eagled logo when someone cleared their throat.

Fury was standing at the window, looking out at the town, his long, black coat in his arms.

“Sir?” asked Steve.

“Close the door.”

Only after it had clicked shut, did Fury step away from observing the street below. It was rare to see him in just shirtsleeves and a grey waistcoat, although he did not look any less sinister: the visible shoulder straps of his holsters guaranteed this.

“Trouble with investigation?” he asked upon coming face to face with Steve.

“Until the telegraph pylons are fixed, we’re shooting blind, sir. All our usual contacts seem somewhat disinterested in returning to good old pen and paper.”

“You’ll be glad to have work on your hands, then?” Fury’s good eye was peering at Steve passively. “Some of it is right in front of you.”

Steve cast a glance at Fury’s desk, where there were several thick sheaves of paper bound by leather bands drowning all of Fury’s carefully laid out, town-related projects.

“What is it?” Steve asked.

“Your new mission—a couple police reports, a coroner’s report, in addition to several notes from court cases. You’re now officially part of the Warmonger hunt.” Fury took a seat at his desk and looked up at Steve’s knitted brows. “I didn’t come up with it. There’s been another murder. Washington’s sent an order for all available men on this case.”

It had been a while since Steve had answered to direct orders from the White House; he only narrowly prevented his body from slipping into parade rest.

“How can I help with that, sir?”

“Oh, I think we’ll find use for you,” said Fury vaguely. “Take a seat.”

Blindly, Steve felt for the back of a leather chair and drew it up; its leg snagged on the carpet.

Fury’s grandfather clock chimed four times in the corner of the room while Steve wondered how Fury had known to take this matter up with Steve after his promise to Tony had become void, but now that conversation had been established, he had more pressing issues to address.

“Okay, hit me,” he prompted.

“As you already know, there’s unrest in America,” said Fury as casually as if they were discussing the weather. “The Southern senators are getting tired of being blamed for the murder of another idealist. At this speed, these deaths will drive this country into a state of open warfare. This means, at its worst, another civil war.”

“You believe there’s a single cause for this?”

Fury hesitated.

“Imagine this,” he said. “A man creates dissension on purpose to antagonize the country that is still divided—to the bitter losers who are neck-deep in debt, and the rich winners, who feel validated by their cause. It is easy, too easy, to stage the murders of several politicians with significant northern ideals of equality. Conflict made, this man is one murder away from starting a full-blown war. So, I ask you, Sheriff, what kind of man will profit from this? What could this man own that will make him a rich man when human nature becomes a casualty of war?”

Steve caught on quickly. “Weapons,” he said. “He makes weapons.”

“Exactly,” said Fury, looking greatly approving. “Unfortunately, we can’t touch them. They’re rich. They arm our military. We must act quietly without raising alarm. But, how do we know which company to target?”

“Because they have already started to prepare for it. A head start in design and manufacturing will guarantee them a place in the helm of the industry before their rivals have even had the chance to warm up.” Steve looked up at Fury. “Did you come up with this in four weeks?”

Fury said, half irritably, half proudly, “Two. The bridge delayed the mail, I only got the news a fortnight ago. Still with me?”

“Yes, sir, although I’m not sure what this has to do with me.”

“I’m getting there,” said Fury, rising up.

Steve, now sat at the very edge of his seat, asked Fury’s turned back, “Am I allowed to share it with my men?”

“Yes,” said Fury, who stopped rooting through his safe right when the door of the room opened. “As a matter of fact, I already took the liberty of inviting them here.”

And sure enough, they were there, looking bemused. Fury invited them, by gesture, to be seated, where they continued to look at the mayor curiously. When Fury straightened up, he laid a casual hand atop his safe.

“They don’t build these the way they used to,” he said rather wistfully, gazing at it. “My grandfather used to be a banker. This was his, bought after his retirement. Its sister stood in the back room. Several times, someone broke in, took a couple dollars but was left a little unsatisfied. Little did they know, grandfather never trusted size, and kept the big money right here, under his watchful eye. As a kid, you had to admire the cunning…”

Steve had a sudden and vivid mental image of a one-eyed, bald baby drooling on the knee of a greying gentleman, listening to stories of distrust and crime.

There was a crack of dry wood; Clint had leant his chair back by a boot placed on the desk’s edge.

“Didn’t Tony break into that to steal the designs on our gas-fueled lamps for his pet project?” he asked slyly, disregarding Steve’s look that plainly said ‘you’re pushing your luck’, a feeling apparently shared by Sam, who shuffled his feet as though quite eager to put a bit of distance between himself and Clint.

There was a pause that Steve would have described as awkward and embarrassed had he not known Fury better. With an air of forcing himself to admit something unpleasant, Fury said, “I will neither deny nor confirm those claims.”

And when he slapped some more paper onto the already full desk, he made sure to hit Clint’s foot.

“Here, I got my hands on some mail we intercepted. Stage hacks have such poor safety record.”

Steve and the deputies picked up a letter each.

> _Stern,_
> 
> _I know you have suffered from the claims of corruption. I spared some and therefore I could not spare all. I also know very well, I assure you, about your current financial troubles. But you must remember, it was harder for me to cover my tracks than it was for you. It will be harder still, now that the doubts have already been laid._
> 
> _You can retrieve your slip, which will be the very last one, from the bank. There shall be no more, no matter what. Any additional costs, you shall bear yourself. Are we in agreement?_
> 
> _I hope you are considering yourself very lucky indeed that your letter caught me in a good mood, for my best worker has returned under my service and will continue from where he left. He has cost me a long penny, but all will be worth it in the end. He may act mutinous but given the right tools and motivation, I am sure that under no time, my company shall rise even beyond its former glory. It is almost incredible how a son of_

Steve reached the end of the page with a growing sense of dislike—of the sender taking for granted the cooperation of people, even when addressing their apparent reluctance himself. Yet other than his selfishness, he was at lost why Fury had kept it; there were a number of things that would alarm him, had buying and receiving rail bonds as bribes not been so common among the rich; and so, Steve was reduced to staring at the handwriting itself.

The sender had made his y’s and j’s with fast and angry slashes that had pressed deep into the sheet. It was addressed to a Stern. Who were they? What project of a weapons magnate could they be part of? And finally, the esteemed worker, who will make or break the success of the company. _It’s almost incredible how a son of—_

Son of who? Were the worker’s parents of a poor background? Steve turned the paper around, but the sentence didn’t continue there. Steve scanned the desk: perhaps the rest of the letter had fallen off its ripped envelope. He peeked under the sheaves of paper, shook several documents and turned over an opened envelope, yet, the unfinished sentence was not carried on any paper or any other surface on the desk.

At last, curiosity unquenched he suspected the rest of the letter had been accidentally grabbed by one of the others. But none of them were looking at their laps in baffled fashion: their eyes were still moving quickly along the lines of what looked to be much more satisfying, long letters.

“Where’s this from,” Steve asked, displaying the lone page.

Fury took the paper from Steve’s hands. “Stark Industries. This,” he said, “is Obadiah Stane’s mail.”

“It’s missing a page.”

 _“What?”_ Fury exclaimed, mimicking Steve in turning the letter around and around but no further text appeared. “Damn it! Just because he’s got the brains doesn’t make it open season on my shit. Light-fingered, pilfering motherfuc—”

“Careful,” Clint interjected. “Steve’s sensitive to that kind of talk.”

The others had apparently reached the ends of their letters some time ago and listened in. Fury glowered before turning his back on them.

“We know who this Stern is?” Steve ventured, grabbing onto the only tangible information.

“Yes,” Fury said distractedly, digging through his safe, “but my attention is less on what’s on it than what _isn’t._ As it happens, Governor Stern was taken in custody for suspicion of corruption last week.”

“What a curious coincidence,” said Clint, who, Steve couldn’t help but observe, looked to be rather enjoying himself.

Fury combed every inch of his safe for over ten minutes, but was forced, finally, to conclude that the rest of the letter was gone. Given how upset as he was, Steve got the feeling it would have contained something much more valuable than the first page, and the only potentially useful clue he could see was the identity of the worker. _It’s almost incredible how a son of_ —who?

The sun was about to set now; it’s low-hanging light dazzled them even through the distorting glass of the old windows.

Steve angled his body away from its brightness and sought for appropriate words. “Aren’t the letters a little … farfetched?”

“What do I have to do with you people,” said Fury, looking exasperatedly at their unimpressed expressions. “Present you with a fully sketched masterplan to destroy Earth?”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” said Bucky.

“So, what? Stane’s on threat watch just because of a letter?” asked Sam, sounding highly skeptical. “And guesswork?”

“We gathered everything related to military. This does not mean—”

“Who’s ‘we’?” asked Steve sharply.

“Trying to change decades of common opinion is not something one tackles alone,” Fury evaded. “Obadiah Stane is considered a national treasure and there is significant resistance to the idea of anything contrary. Many call Stane the key to our economic recovery. If we let this continue and the world ends, maybe we had it coming.”

Fury was quiet for a beat.

“There, however, _is_ a certain group of people who have been monitoring a lot of potential threats closely. As of now, I can only reach them by mail. Whoever burned that bridge has made me a _very_ desperate man.”

“And,” said Steve, “there’s nothing that can be done to fix that ugly, old—"

He stopped, careful not to say what he really thought about. Fury set his fisted hands on the desk and leaned over to Steve.

“There won’t be a puddle you can cross peacefully in between here and Nova Scotia except the River Styx, should Stane prevail. I know you all have been hoping for a position where you might see a fair bit of action, but this is far more than survey work. Public opinion is what preserves his innocence. The idea that there is somebody out there who might be able, whose _fate_ might even be, to act as a war deterrent, gives people hope. They won’t let go of that easily. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

Steve did, but he was not going to help Fury get there.

“I do, sir. But, with all due respect,” Steve said, “I still don’t see how we could possibly find something that these … _certain group of people_ have not in the weeks since the first death.”

For some reason, Fury gave Clint an annoyed look, as though it was all his fault he was enduring the force of Steve’s obstinance instead of easy cooperation, but Steve, glancing across at Bucky, who was indifferently chewing on a straw, thought that Fury was fighting a long-lost battle. However, Fury had not said his last word.

“Do you know how the Battle of Volohai was won?” he asked.

Steve, feeling baffled, only shrugged.

“It was because of the little beings, who worked hidden from the apex predator in the metaphorical grassroots. Too small to detect, too small to cause a threat, but armed with a pair of big round ears—” Fury flicked his. “You, Rogers, have always been the harshest critic on authority. If you came out as an advocate, people would trust you. Although removed, you are a symbol. People _remember_ their Captain.”

A memory caused a twinge in Steve’s chest; he thought he was done serving as someone’s cleanup crew. “I don’t do that anymore,” he told Fury.

Fury smirked. “You will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four days as agreed, right?
> 
> Actually, it's been more like 3d 18h but, eh, semantics. There was a bit more action in this chapter that's slowly building up to the real plot. And don't worry, it's not going to be too political--not my cup of tea, either.
> 
> See you next on ... Thursday, I guess? Xx


	3. The Nighttime Visitor

A Wednesday morning in early November found a stagecoach trundling towards the town.

With no bridge construction underway, Steve and a handful of others swum to meet it at the opposite bank, tied two tree trunk logs to its wheels and floated it across the river, where the horses sprung up the steep rise from the water in long leaps, breeching and straps clinking and groaning. Steve, wet from his head to his toes, took only time to pour the freezing water off his boots, before breaking into a jog after the stage, which was heading to the Mail Office.

The driver, irritated by the delay and eager to catch up on lost time, was rather brusque with him as Steve engaged him into a conversation, while running level with the driver’s seat.

“You ought to get that bridge fixed,” the driver growled.

“We’re dealing with it. No mail from Sokovia?” Steve asked. “Kremmlin?”

“No, sir. Not today, either.”

He urged his horses forward with a whip of his reins and a loud _‘hyah!’_ and Steve was left behind. Wringing the wet hem of his jacket, Steve followed its progress sulkily. The lamp-lit street was clear … nothing else seemed to be going on in the town … Steve had taken his first step back to work, when something on the street caught his eye … something distinctly odd.

The stage was not the only thing moving. A black-clad figure emerged from the large building on the opposite of the Mail Office—the townhall. And the swishing, long jacket was unmistakable.

Steve stared at Fury. He was supposed to be busy finding a cheap steel company and a free architect—so what was he doing, sneaking to the stage as though he had been anxiously following its movements from that window of his at seven o’clock in the morning? Steve watched closely as Fury moved to the driver and received a tall pile of envelopes…

Steve hesitated; it might not be casework related. But he was bored … and then his curiosity got the better of him. He got moving and set off towards the townhall. He was going to see what new information was available.

Steve walked along the shadows of the porches as quietly as possible, though some horses tied at the posts still snorted fright at the squeak of a board, the play of shadows whenever he passed a lamp. He crossed the mouth of an alley, ducked behind the porch of the townhall, a rail that hid him out of sight. He kept glancing up at Fury, who was walking back rather slowly while sorting his letters by priority … it just didn’t sit right given his earlier eagerness, somehow…

And then, when Fury was under the porch, eyes on the mail, and Steve had stopped breathing, Fury spoke up.

“Do me a favor,” he said. “If we ever start another war, don’t offer to spy for us.”

Rather badly startled and mad at himself for having been discovered by a bookish, law-abiding mayor such as Fury, Steve stood up, brushing his pants where sand clung to the wet linen.

“Sorry, sir,” he apologized. “I just couldn’t help but notice today was far more fruitful for you than it was for us.”

Fury followed his gaze to the letters on his hands, looked up and grinned. It did something funny to the shape of his mouth, not helped by the fact Steve had never seen such expression on him.

“I have a big family, back in Alabama,” he replied and escaped indoors.

Given how bare his office was, though, Steve had no doubt he had been untruthful. Who was Fury corresponding with that he did not want others to know about? What did a mayor, whose priority was evidently not the wellbeing of their town, do?

Their office had spent weeks in near silence and had taken to helping people and occasional item across the river. Despite Fury’s assertion to keep on eye on things, criminal activity had hit an all-time-low, as though it might compensate for the chaos of the previous month. Steve was always glad to see the stagecoach, because it represented a connection to the world outside, albeit a scarce and ill-tempered kind. They relished any news about what was happening in America, though the driver was not an ideal informer. He had little time to prattle around since he was now frequently delayed, and they had to be very careful not to ask too much or the man would drive past them next time through.

However, he had dropped some snippets: the man had big expectations for a new kind of Stark’s six-shooter about to hit commercial markets. A train loaded full of metal parts on its way to San Francisco had weighted so much that the Half Mile Bridge had needed steel reinforcement. The debate on who should pay for the costs had went to court the week before—where Obadiah Stane himself had been in attendance.

From all of these things, Steve had drawn the conclusion that business was booming in the West Coast for Stane. This scant news made Steve wish for one more, this time incriminating, fact so badly it felt like a headache; yet it also reminded him of the lack of progress made on the case of the arsons. Indeed, as the driver shared little anecdotes of life outside, Steve for a mad moment entertained himself with the thought of what would happen if he surrendered to the fatigue: to drop his mask, and to catch a breath, and to have other people in charge seemed all but irresistible at that moment. But then he remembered that it would be a cruel thing to do for the people who trusted him, and who looked up to him in trying times such as this. Indeed, this point was inadvertently emphasized by the townsmen who slipped leading questions about their progress into daily conversation.

The weather grew colder and colder. One day the snowy cap of the mountain range, which had descended lower and lower down the mountainside, had reached the town in what seemed like overnight. Harsh wind and sleet pounded their homes and had, evidently, frozen even the criminal activity.

One of the off sunny days found Clint and Steve behind stacked sacks of flour in front of Joe’s. All around them there was a fine dusting of powdery snow that had fallen the night before, and which Clint had brushed off the sacks, so that it would not stir when he took his shot and, subsequently, alert his presence to the man they were looking out for.

“Any sign of him?” Steve asked, back braced against their cover and staring out into the chanced outlook of the town.

Steve noticed that many of the people who passed them had the same harried look that met Steve every morning in the mirror. Nobody walked alone. Less time was spent talking and, even less than that, shopping. Trade had slowed down as the usual supply lines were cut. On the other hand, a number of questionable, self-contained salesmen had sprung up. The newest one, who had entered the Saloon in hopes of an easy deal, was taking his sweet time in the face of what should have been an instant rejection. Steve feared this one was just the start of a long list of hardship.

“No,” said Clint, whose breath misted the air in front of him. “For an outlaw, this one is unnaturally dull.”

Idly, Steve scratched at the newly grown hair on his chin. Next to them, a woman peered hopefully into the apple crates and, after finding them empty, walked off briskly into the direction of her home. Watching her retreat, Steve grunted and changed position.

“Twenty more minutes and I’m going to freeze off my—”

“Steve, you haven’t been practicing on Third Street, have you?”

Apparently, Clint had been following his own train of thought.

“Practicing?”

“Behind the church, didn’t I tell you I saw some battered cans there? I thought it was you. The tin was bent like butter, hard to tell the caliber from the size of the holes. Now that I think about it, it didn’t match any of Tony’s, either.”

As Clint talked, Steve’s heart sped up.

“When was this?”

“About a month ago.”

“Have you told anyone about this?” Steve asked urgently.

“No.”

“Good,” said Steve, mind racing.

With a thrill, he considered a new possibility. Poor riffling had been brought up on two separate occasions which were both directly connected to a tragedy. Was it likely that the assassination of Thaddeus Ross and the fires were related? If so, Steve felt that he was on the verge of something big: the implication that a singular power accountable for two kills could be responsible for their misery was headache-inducingly hard to wrap one’s head around. Now, however—

A small branch hit Clint on the shoulder.

 _“Gah!”_ he shouted, clutching his rifle like a lifeline as the offending piece of wood clattered onto the deck by their feet.

Steve found himself gaping at its knobby grey bark; there were no trees in this side of town. He looked up and saw a small foot hovering in the air. There, couple feet above him, was a boy hanging from the balcony rail above Joe’s porch.

“Hey, Peter,” called Clint. “Need help?” 

A muffled reply was heard from amidst the puffs for breath.

“Sorry, couldn’t quite make out what you said behind that mask of yours.”

“No,” said the boy, Peter, louder this time, but just as stubbornly.

“Standard procedure, huh? Okay, just put your foot under the other. Like climbing down a tree. Did your father ever teach you how?”

“I haven’t got one.”

“Me, too,” said Clint.

Peter was finally down on the ground, shaking his hands. Steve watched him pick a splinter from his thumb. And sure enough, he had a strange-looking mask with slits for eyes on his face, behind which one could see the pinked tips of his rather prominent ears.

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” inquired Clint, who had laid his rifle down atop the flour and was now digging through his pockets. “Here, have a candy and go before Sharon rips me a new one.”

Peter lifted up his mask to slip the unwrapped jellybean into his mouth. With hasty thanks, he picked up the branch and hurried off, without giving Steve any time to offer fatherly words of advice, though admittedly he could not think of any. Instead, Steve turned to Clint with a look of wintry disapproval.

“You shouldn’t encourage him,” he said in an undertone. “This could have been incredibly dangerous.”

“You haven’t seen what’s on the other side of the mask. _Big_ , brown puppy eyes.”

Steve pursed lips, feeling as though he had just bit on something very bitter as he watched Peter skid away.

“Anyway,” continued Clint, “Bucky said the kid reminds him of you, which, technically, would make you a big fat hypocrite.”

“He should expect a bright future as this town’s Sheriff, then.”

Peter ran up and down the street, branch pointed like a gun and, as he passed them, they heard a muffled ‘pew, pew’ from behind the mask.

“It’s good to see him up and running,” said Clint and Steve couldn’t help but notice there was a new, rather fatherly tone to his usual sneer. “Tony was something of a hero to him. If there’s one person who took his loss about as hard as you, it’s this kid.”

There was little talk after that.

Later, after having caught the unlicensed liquor salesman, who was taken to the cells by Clint, Steve decided to walk to the church. There he followed its white picket fence and its worn painted surface until, under the stained-glass windows, he found what he was looking for: an oddly shaped, snow-capped post. Excited, he took off his hat, and swatted at the fence. Snow fell off and revealed what was underneath.

Something had chipped the post into splinters, but neither of the cleaner grooves cutting it diagonally, nor the slight blackened gunpowder residue confirmed Steve’s theory. Feeling disappointed, he threw sideways glances left and right, put on his hat with a twirl and, with last parting glower at the fence, walked off to finish some more paperwork.

***

The Town Court echoed with voices as Steve made his way past its icy windows; winter was approaching fast. People unwrapped themselves from their protective layers as they sought for seats among the six rows of spectator seating, which faced the ungated judge’s dais, flanked by the witness table and the jury. Large groups of women tended to converge along the middle aisle, chattering excitedly, which caused blockages on Steve’s way to his seat among the witnesses; fortunately, however, very little people had gathered by the drafty windows, so that Steve was able, without too much difficulty, to navigate his way along the left wall.

Bucky, who might once have found the necessity of this detour a cause of irritation rather than relief, simply settled to shoot deadly glares at the defense. Although Steve appreciated this show of support, he was slowly, at the sight of Bucky’s squarely clenched jaw, becoming to regret not taking Sam instead. Firstly, Bucky was more aggressive in his protection of Steve, who remained stubborn about the unnecessity of this; and secondly, Steve found sitting next to Bucky akin to being close to a dynamite with a lit fuse.

Finally, after several minutes of Bucky’s continuing disapproval, an inconspicuous door in the back opened and Coulson stepped in and slid behind the dais.

“Are everyone present?” he asked around. “The accused?”

“Taking a smoke,” said a cold male voice from midst the counsel.

“Taking a smoke?” repeated Coulson, incredulously. “I’m asked here for a trial from behind a, frankly, monstrous pile of paperwork and all I get is a bunch of no-shows? Now, you will fetch him here, or the next sentence I give, will come very much faster.”

A man rose from within the witnesses for defense and ran out. Seconds later, the courtroom doors swung open and the accused took his seat before Steve, smelling strongly of something very bitter.

“All right,” said Coulson, “the accused being present, we can begin. Disciplinary hearing of the seventh of November…”

The court continued its session with many mutters from the press of standees. All eyes followed from speaker to speaker. When Steve gave testimony of the accused smuggling ardent spirits containing expectorant without liquor license, the day had grown dark which each passing minute as the clouds outside darkened to navy. By the time Steve finished, it was impossible to distinguish if the blizzard was still going on or not.

“Defense,” Coulson called for the last turn to speak, looking vexed at Bucky’s right side. Clearly, they worked him too hard. “Anything to add?”

One man, who looked unfortunately familiar to Steve, stood up. Wolfgang Strucker, who could often be recognized by his sporting his thin golden-rimmed monocle, cleared his throat and looked down at his documents.

“Just out of curiosity, Sheriff,” Strucker started and hit the papers against the desk before stepping up front. “How many people have you arrested, let’s say, these past six months?”

Steve hesitated. From midst the crowded rows, a man stood up and hollered, “Yeah, give us a number!”

The standees cheered. Steve felt his cheeks color as he ducked his chin.

“Twenty-one,” he said, feeling uncomfortably warm. It took a while before Strucker got a word in past the animated, mumbling crowd.

“And how long has having them arrested taken you?”

“Objection,” said Bucky from next to Steve.

“Overruled,” denied Coulson.

“How long,” repeated Strucker brusquely.

“Does Mr. _Strutter,”_ said Bucky, “refer to the time between the crime committed and the moment of capture, or the moment a sentence has been given in court?”

Strucker sneered unpleasantly as he looked from Steve to Bucky.

“The question was not targeted to the Chief Deputy, Mr. Barnes. Let’s restrict it to ‘trialed’ so we may have a manageable number.”

“Three weeks,” conceded Steve, “at most.”

“No, Sheriff, not three weeks. It is actually fifteen days on average. Fifteen!” Strucker exclaimed and turned, arms splayed to the courtroom. “Imagine that.”

There was a greedy glint to Strucker’s sharp eyes when he faced Steve again. Those who had looked excited were now starting to frown.

“And how long has it been since the bridge burned?”

Steve didn’t answer.

“A month! To the date. Now, is it true, you were exposed to toxic smoke on the night of the fire?” he asked. “Has that troubled you?”

“How so?” Steve asked, aware that Bucky had straightened on his right side.

Strucker begun to pace in front of their table. “Were you, er, left with any … physical effects?”

In the second row, a square-jawed man leaned closer to his neighbor, a thin man, and whispered something to his ear. The friend smirked and nodded.

“Like what?”

“Have you experienced any symptoms that have hindered your ability to do your work to your full potential?”

“Do you want me to say my testimony is unreliable?” Steve said.

A murmur rose around the benches. Some of the gathered crowd were eyeing Strucker with pronounced outrage, others with mild interest. Then Steve heard, quite distinctly, from Bucky’s other side, a muttered voice saying, “Bastard.”

“Those who oppose our Sheriff, or his friend, best sleep with one eye open,” joked Strucker, shouting his words for all of court to hear. “Old Boogey Man might take ya!”

_Bam!_

Half the room jumped on their seats; Bucky had struck his fist down onto the table.

“Objection,” he growled. “Speculation.”

“Correct. Mr. Strucker, perhaps counsel should be advised that the Sheriff is not the defendant in this action,” Coulson said calmly, but Strucker had drawn himself up, clutching his breast pocket, looking livid.

“It is a fraud! Favoritism!” he bellowed, pointing at Steve. “First the mail is late! Now the water is so cold that in order to cross it, one has to turn himself into a human icicle, and you, Rogers, are purposefully withholding the prosecution because the culprit was a friend of yours! This is not justice! This dog _did_ bite the hand that fed him, and you _cannot_ hide the scar from us. You, with your medals and honor, you who have let your man hooraw you around—here’s what I think of _you!_ ”

He spat onto the table in front of Steve.

Before he could even wipe his chin, though, the man was seized by the front of his suit by Bucky, who one-handedly lifted Strucker in air and looked equally enraged. The courtroom gave a collective gasp.

“You squirmy, little cyclops,” Bucky was snarling as his clenched fist slowly choked Strucker.

“Let him down, Buck,” Steve said firmly.

Grudgingly, Bucky released his hold. Strucker’s feet returned to the floor, half his body collapsing onto the table he had been hovered over.

On their right side, Coulson seemed to be attempting to bang his club through his mahogany dais. The questions came to an end after that, and the man was, by common vote, found guilty. By Strucker’s last parting look as he slunk back to his seat, though, Steve figured getting the man free had never been his goal. A man sitting at the back, leaned forward, as the conversation roused, to say something to the front before, who said something to the rows before that, the news spreading like wildfire. A man got up, left. A second gets up next, follows. Another man. Another.

Depleting the male voices, until only women and some of the older men were sitting and one side of the Town Court was practically empty. Finally, having entirely redone their knitted scarfs and hats three times each, even the women seemed unable to any more reasons to delay: they left the courtroom, disappearing into the wind-swept, snowy main street in troops.

“Poor Sheriff,” Steve heard one of them whisper as they passed by him in the court hallway. “He must still love him dearly … imagine having to arrest your own husband.”

And Steve, having been constantly, painfully, on the alert for any indication that someone else was about to tell him they had had enough, that they wished for _more_ , understood boredom: it wasn’t idle; it was frustration, powerlessness, want to do more with no means to do it. No wonder it had driven Tony away.

But after the last skirt had rounded the corner, and Steve trailed off to home, he closed himself into their bedroom, racked for the first time since his walk along the river by wrenching, breathless bout of tears. He sat on their iron bedstead with Tony’s last gift forced to his mouth, howling actually, uncontrolled, hoping no one would hear him.

***

Steve’s eyes were puffy as he dipped the blade into the pail of well water.

Shaking off excess droplets, he looked back into the mirror, examining the dark circles under his eyes with clinical interest. He had to admit to himself, though, that he had continued work with a kind of fury, relishing the manual work, glorying in the strain of it, for every hour not slept and every new scar in his body felt like a promise of aptitude to the people that he served.

They truly were as black ash, Steve thought, and was visited by a strange, impossible memory— _the fire had started from inside Tony’s locked office, not the heart of the forge._

But what did that prove? Some liquids Tony worked with were self-igniting when anoxic. It was all becoming confused; Steve didn’t understand what was going on. He wanted more than anything to be back in his bed with his husband. The problem was, though, that the fact he _couldn’t_ was exactly the source of his troubles.

His burnt hand seared with pain; he had gripped the blade he had meant to shave with so tightly it had dug into his slowly healing palm. At this hiss, Bucky looked up. He was polishing his boots, in his bare feet. One hand inside the boot, the other blacking it. Muttering about seeing to a doctor, Steve set down the bloodstained blade and left the office.

As he crossed the dark street, Sam’s horse looked up from the hitching post, neighed softly, then resumed its dozing. Steve stopped under the porch of Bruce’s house, staring at the chipped paint of the front door, rubbing his throbbing hand, and thought of Tony.

He felt as each of them had reached an understanding to wait for some sign, some word, of what was going on outside Leigh’s Creek—and that it was useless to speculate about what might be coming until they knew for certain.

But Tony … Tony would have solved these murders, Steve knew. Tony would have known who had shot them and why because Tony always had the answers; he had fixed guns, gas lamps, built amazing things from scrap in his forge … but Tony, like the forge, was gone…

“Steve?”

Steve snapped out of his despair as quickly as he had let it take him, and came to, clutching the wooden support of the porch. Bruce had snuck up to his side and was carrying a bag of groceries.

“Steve, do come in,” Bruce said. “Is the hand troubling you? You _have_ remembered to treat it every night?”

Steve was so startled he answered truthfully. “I forgot.”

Instead of treating him downstairs, Bruce ushered Steve straight to his apartment above his practice, where he sat Steve down by the table while he unpacked his groceries into the kitchen cupboards. Staring around the space, trying to think of a good excuse to his lack of selfcare he hadn’t yet used, Steve saw a bed, a curtained alcove, a frayed oriental carpet and several precarious-looking piles of books. It was most unusual to observe Bruce’s modest living environment; he was good enough to practice in New York, or Washington.

No one knew for sure why he _didn’t_. Rumor had it serving on the battle fields for years had left him war-fatigued. And that the horrors surfaced in sudden bursts of uncontrollable anger, and an inability to handle stress. And that the color green could be somehow at fault of triggering those, hence why he was now here, surrounded by sand. But those were only rumors.

As though from a distance, he heard Bruce light a fire under his kettle to make tea for himself—said he liked it to calm his nerves. Steve wasn’t very flattered thinking that dealing with him required numbing substances.

“Tsk,” said Bruce, when the steaming cups had been laid to cool on the table, and he had gotten around to unwrapping the old bloody dressings. “It’s definitely going to scar now.”

“Should complete the set nicely, then,” Steve said but broke off with a curse: Bruce had just poured alcohol into the cut, which, stung and shocked him.

There was an essay full of tightly written medical lingo on the table next to their cups.

“Long paragraph,” Steve said conversationally.

“Started three pages ago,” Bruce said, not lifting his head that was still bowed over Steve’s palm. “It’s rather fascinating. They’ve come up with a new theory on tissue regeneration.”

“Really?” asked Steve, trying to sound engaged.

“It’s cutting edge,” Bruce continued to gush, and Steve watched him bend down and pick up a bottle from his medical bag, all the while Bruce kept up a seamless dialogue on scar tissue.

And although Steve had his retort ready for when Bruce asked him why he had not simply taken care of it each night, he did not need it: Bruce sat down facing him without a word once the new dressing had been finished. His hand still throbbed, but he was determined to be as detached from it as he was from the hollow in his chest.

With the darkness of the night outside, and the company of someone, who seemed to expect nothing of him, he allowed himself to relax, and they sat in a comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of Bruce blowing his drink cooler. Steve was looking out of the window, though, once he caught his own reflection upon it, his shifting gaze locked on the bottle of Dr. Erskine’s Burn Healing Activator on the window-sill and lingered there until Bruce spoke.

“He slept at my place, you know,” he said. At Steve’s bewildered stare, he added, “Tony.”

It was like an electric current had gone through Steve. He could feel Bruce’s eyes on him. Yet, he stared at the words, _Approved by Physicians and Clergymen_ , as though fascinated by it, but not really seeing them at all…

“I housed him for a month or so,” Bruce continued. “Not every night, just sometimes. The walk is a bit shorted here.”

So that was where Tony had been … tucked away in this dim, remote closet of a space. Had he really preferred it to their house? Had he simply been too ashamed to face Steve or had he, like Steve, wanted to pretend just a little longer?

“He didn’t tell me much … I thought you’d hit a rough patch,” explained Bruce, who was rather studiously rubbing at his elbow crease under the folded cuffs of his shirt. “But then … you went and ran into a building on fire. Stupid, but heroic.”

Steve bowed his head, abashed.

“I thought about telling you then … but … everything went pear-shaped.” Bruce looked equally sheepish from what Steve saw from between his errant strands. “Sorry.”

“I don’t blame you,” Steve spoke softly. “Tony needs more people who consider him priority.”

Bruce scrutinized Steve closely. “Whose priority are you? Bucky’s?”

“He hasn’t let go of that naïve … idealistic, eighteen-year-old little kid with a weak chest. Since we joined the war by Lincoln’s draft, since us enlisted were swept off by the recruitment parade outside the court-house to the sound of its drums, since we fought together, he’s been my priority.”

“Until Tony,” Bruce said.

“Until Tony,” agreed Steve.

They sipped their teas. An itch was starting under the dressing on Steve’s palm and he fought the urge to scratch it. Bruce’s sharp gaze caught this.

“Avoid touching it—guess that’s the least I can hope for, given your profession.” He stirred his tea. “You know, modern medicine is headed to being less about the _corpus_ and more about the _animus._ I might be only good at fixing your hand, but. You should think about getting out.”

“Of what?” Steve asked, his cup frozen halfway to his lips.

“Serving. What do you really want to do with your life?”

At this, Steve exhaled loudly. “I do not know.”

Along with Tony, dreams of doing something other had left him weeks ago. It had always been something he had thought about doing _sometime_ —always with an indefinite date in mind to postpone it and take it off his mind for the time being. Steve wondered if Tony had sensed that continuing thigs as they were had always seemed easiest to him. Had Tony become frustrated by his lack of decisiveness?

“Do you know where he went?” Steve asked abruptly, hiding his mouth behind a long sip.

Bruce, not needing clarification as to who ‘he’ was, set down his cup carefully, as though buying time to collect his thoughts.

“No,” he said, but went on hastily, “I would tell you if I knew.”

Steve suppressed a wave of disappointment, for he granted his expectations had been too high; these were things Tony had kept from him as well.

“Was he here on that night?” Steve asked.

“Briefly. I didn’t see him, though. I was busy with a patient downstairs, but when I came up, all his stuff was gone—well, most.”

Steve, who had readied himself to rising up, stopped cold.

“During his last days here, Tony received a lot of letters,” Bruce went on. “I didn’t know he was in contact with people from his past.”

“He isn’t—wasn’t. There’s no one.”

“A ghost wrote this, then?” Bruce asked, and from below two issues of _Lancet_ on the window-sill, he drew a thin envelope, which was ripped open.

Steve reached for it, but before his fingers touched it, he hesitated.

“You’ve read this?” he asked Bruce.

“I found it lost under his cot, already opened. I like my privacy, and I’ve found that the best way to maintain it, is to respect that of others.”

Steve bit his lip, then snatched the envelope. He flipped it open, took out the folded letter and one-handedly shook it open. Unsigned, unaddressed, it only contained one line:

> _Remember who you are._

“Very helpful,” Steve sighed to himself.

The lack of text must have shown through the paper in the lighting, because Bruce straightened in his seat, craning his neck.

“What’s in it?” he asked, clearly battling with his curiosity.

“A dead-end,” replied Steve, folding the letter back, but at the word ‘dead’, something stirred in him; at the shape of the letter ‘y’ and its sharp downward tip. No matter what he tried, the memory eluded him. Was it a threat? Or an encouragement from an old friend to a bored Tony to embrace what he really needed: more than this life.

Dispirited, Steve chugged back the rest of his tea, now bitter and lukewarm. The familiar feeling of unease was back in his stomach. He had been so sure answers would have alleviated his worries rather than increasing them.

***

It was nearing midday and Steve was sitting alone in the Office, reading a long report that was slipping through his brain without leaving the slightest trace of meaning behind. He had slept badly that night. Trying to focus on the print on the page before him, his thoughts kept turning back to his dreams which had been full of faceless people set in a circle towering over Tony, shoving a picture of Steve onto his face and shouting, “You can do better! Remember who you are!”

His fingers moved absent-mindedly to his wedding ring still adorning his finger, which had felt very naked and more than a little wrong the first time he had tried to pry off the jewelry…

Steve turned over the second page of the report, saw how much longer it went on, and gave it up as a bad job. Stretching his arms above his head and popping his back, he looked around the room for a distraction. It was deserted; even the three cells lined along the corridor on the room out back were empty, and the front door was shut against the late November chill. Suppressing a shiver, Steve let down his arms. It was then, as his forearms came to rest on the desk again, that he came face to face with Tony.

The picture was matt, round-edged and black-bordered, and slightly worn at the corners from being moved in and out of jacket pockets before he had saved the money for an actual frame. From the photograph, Tony’s face stared back at Steve seriously; the glare of the contrasting monochrome had drained him of color and turned his eyes into two dull, black holes.

Burying his face in one hand, Steve turned the frame around with the other. The backside read in unfamiliar penmanship:

> _Manhattan on 4 th of April 1868_

Who had written this? Where had the day of Tony’s nineteenth birthday taken him after the taking of this photograph? Who had had this picture taken of him? These were the questions Steve got no answer to from the unmoving object of his focus. He was still staring the murky cardboard back when the door opened, and a piece of white paper swum into his field of vision. He followed it, up the arm, and met Bucky’s pointed stare.

“What’s this?” Steve asked.

“Your dance card for tonight’s ball at the town hall.”

“I’m not going,” Steve said.

“Too depressed?”

“Too busy.” He shot Bucky a look from under his brow and found him visibly skeptical. “Don’t you think it’s a little … soon?”

“What would you rather do? Scrub your sooty floorboards?”

“At least I clean,” said Steve, which sobered Bucky up at once.

Steve felt babied and beleaguered: did they think he did not know Tony was never going to come back, didn’t they understand that it was only the manner of his departure that left him feeling torn? There was a long and awkward silence that was broken by the sound of crinkling and Steve lowered his gaze to his white-knuckled grip around a paper—he forced himself to uncurl.

Steve jumped when he felt Bucky place a hand on his shoulder, towering concernedly over him. “You all right?”

“I ripped the paper,” Steve said, upset.

“To hell with the paper.” Bucky eyed him. “You’ve lost weight,” he said.

“I haven’t noticed,” Steve said slowly.

“Hard to notice under that … _thing_ ,” Bucky said gesturing to the general direction of Steve’s chin. “You should buy one of those papier-mâché masks from Joe’s before tonight. Although, they fall utterly short of nightmare-inducing in the face of those dark circles. You’re going to scare off all your partners.”

“I bet I’ll feel really terrible about it,” Steve remarked dryly.

“You need to let loose, punk.”

“Why?” said Steve flatly. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Tony’s not coming back.”

Steve, alarmingly, felt his chin wobble. When he did not answer, Bucky pulled him into a crushing hug. Steve’s next words were mumbled against his shoulder.

“If I had believed Clint’s warning—"

“Steve,” said Bucky sternly, “Tony’s your husband, not Clint’s.”

“Was,” Steve muttered.

Hands gripping both of Steve’s shoulders, Bucky pushed Steve an arm’s length from his darkening face. He glanced towards the entrance to check Clint was not returning yet, then said to Steve, “Clint, not unlike Natasha, would psychoanalyze _any_ one of us wrong if it means he can gain something from it.”

“What could he possibly gain from it?”

“Your ongoing indignation? So you’ll hunt down the truth and let him know it when you go to prove him wrong. He doesn’t know shit, Steve. They just act like they do.”

Steve slumped. “But—”

“Tony represented much to you that you had not known before. But,” said Bucky, and with every word, he jabbed the star on Steve’s chest; pressing down so hard Steve feared its points were going to imprint on his skin, “… you ought to relax your self-criticism in favor of your mental state.”

Steve looked away, rubbing at his chest. Resentment and hopelessness battled inside him, fighting for their place on his face. Steve wanted the truth; why was it so hard to come by?

Steve stood up rather suddenly.

“I’m going to the saloon,” he declared.

“What?” asked Bucky, rather alarmed. “Why?”

Steve had his answer ready. “You said it yourself, Buck. Maybe it _is_ time we took a good look into these miners and forgot Fury’s mission for a while.”

“But I only said that to try and persuade you to sleep!” Bucky cried. “I didn’t really mean it.”

But Steve was impervious to this amendment. Rounding his desk, he plucked the card from Bucky’s hands pointedly. “See you tonight.”

As he set off down the dirty-snowed street, he slowed down, looking around.

The town had changed. The piles of fresh produce displayed at storefronts, although naturally growing smaller by the season’s change, were now almost completely lost. Most of it had been cleaned out in panic and preserved, but others had frozen during a record-breaking frost a fortnight ago. A few windows were boarded up, including those of the hotel whose owners had not been able to afford continuing to pay rent to Pym, who owned half of the land the town was built on. The reduced sleeping accommodations had cut back on the number of overnight visitors.

Steve, however, had never been less interested in the town; he was gradually becoming obsessed with the disappearance of Tony. Still expecting a sliver of proof, he sometimes checked through the house, but had not yet detected any such slip as what happened with the unsigned letter. And still there were inexplicable times when he was sure the answer was just at the tip of his tongue…

Moving eastward, Steve caught a shimmer of snowy headstones glittering in the sun out in the desert. This was, he reflected upon seeing the graveyard, the third time something odd had happened with the miners. Last time the law had been involved, there had been a body drifting downstream from the silver claims up in the slopes of the Rockies. Pockets empty, just enough clothes on them to preserve what little dignity could be achieved in death, he was never identified, nor asked after. The man was buried without fanfare in that plot a mile off town, where Steve had seen it done. If they were capable of murder, would it be too far-fetched to suspect them of a different crime: an arson?

And Steve sauntered the rounded porch of the Saloon and swung open the doors.

Inside, he was met by dark wainscoted walls that surrounded about eight round tables, two of which were occupied by poker players, who started to wrap up as Steve walked past the pot-belly stove in the middle of the room and approached the counter, lit by a candle chandelier. It wasn’t until he was standing behind the two men there that he remembered why he tended to avoid the place.

“Always thought there was something fishy about that fella,” said the shorter of the men, well into his bottle of beer. “Invited him to poker once, for the fourth time maybe, said he didn’t have the money. Eh? Now, where would he get clothes like that from?”

The man then leaned closer to his friend, as though to share something conspiratorial, unaware of Steve’s frozen, appalled presence.

“The Sheriff?” he suggested in a tone that made it clear he consider it a nice joke. His quiet friend seemed to agree, letting out a tentative chortle. “Hundred dollars, that’s what’s been the wage far back as I can remember. A hero or not, the state can’t be paying him more than fraction of that for his service in war in addition.”

“He’s a good man, though,” the other said, a little defensively. “If he was paid piecework instead of wages, there would be no money left in this town—”

“A great man, for sure, but blind. At least that husband of his had the decency to leave, knowing as how we know he did it.”

The shorter man brought his bottle to his lips again—and then, making him jump so badly he drew in some of it, and causing his friend to fall off his stool, Steve spoke.

“You’d better retire for tonight, Hodge,” he said coldly. “Your bottle is getting empty.”

Hodge had swallowed a considerable amount of beer in shock. He stood up, teary eyed, and saw the muscle jumping in Steve’s clenched jaw. The quiet one collected himself from where he had awkwardly half-collapsed between counter and seat. Then Steve moved his right arm and reached into his pocket. The two men jumped and were out of the door by the time Steve came out with a dollar bill he slapped onto the counter.

“Well, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Natasha’s voice greeted him from behind it, a distinct purr in her low voice. She was smiling at him crookedly. “What brings you here?”

“A drink.”

Natasha’s brows rose but she complied.

“You need something to calm your nerves,” she said and went to a credenza below a painting of the Rockies, on which stood a dozen half-full, dark-glassed bottles and several glasses. “Here. It’s brandy. I’m going to pour us a little.”

Steve accepted the offered snifter and watched the golden liquid swirl in its bowl.

“Have you heard anything of miners lurking about?” he asked after a moment of not touching the drink.

“No more than usual,” answered Natasha diplomatically, then she eyed him. “You think one of them is a possible suspect? You’ll have to tread carefully, Steve, our economy suffered big enough a hit when the bridge went down—we can’t afford to lose more visitors.”

Steve raised his glass. “Drinks are cheaper, though.”

“The drinks, yes, but not the bottles they come from.”

“Right,” Steve said.

Chairs scraped behind them as one more table emptied for the day. Steve finally braved a sip, and grimaced.

“I don’t know what’s the attraction with this,” he coughed. “This is vile.”

“If you insist on badmouthing my business, you can leave,” Natasha said, and smirked at him over her own, much emptier glass. “Your star-spangled chest is bad enough on its own.”

Steve felt said chest clench at her casual use of Tony’s beloved nickname, and he looked away, out to the now empty saloon. When he turned around, he was sorry to find Natasha was still staring at him.

“I don’t think I can drink this,” he confessed.

“I know.”

Steve looked at her in surprise. “Then why did you pour me one?”

“So you’ll feel obliged to stay longer.”

Unbidden, a smile tugged at the corners of Steve’s mouth. He felt played, but he didn’t feel sore about it.

“You know, when you’ve got a lot of time to think, it’s funny what you remember. It’s the moments that you skated over,” he said, addressing his drink. “I told Tony I was scared of what he did. The look on his face … I don’t think he got what I meant, which part of it I truly was afraid of. Plenty people know what my father did, why I never step a foot in here, and Tony … you don’t think he thought I’d become afraid of _him_ , do you?”

“Steve,” she started tentatively, “there’s nothing you could have done.”

Steve took a second swig to wet his throat.

“That’s what they all say,” he said, his tongue prickling. “I thought you would not be afraid to state differently. I’m very aware there’s a lot of things I can’t prevent. Here we are, at the brink of a second civil war, isolated and I’m miles away from solving either of those problems.”

Natasha leaned over the counter to grip his resting forearm. Her red hair became backlit by the lights behind, gaining the appearance of a fiery halo. This sudden likeness to fire was of no comfort to Steve.

“Is it your job, though?” said Natasha in an undertone. “You’re not the lone gunslinger, Steve.”

“Am I not?”

“You shouldn’t have to be,” she replied.

Steve wrenched his jacket off his shoulders and cast it on a nearby stool. Although the pot-belly stove was several dozen feet away, the room had suddenly become hot. He could also feel a burning and prickling that had nothing to do with the alcohol; he blinked up at the candle chandelier.

“I don’t mean to make things difficult,” he said mournfully.

“You stood behind your own values. That’s not forbidden. You had good intentions.”

“The worst things in the world have been done on good intentions,” Steve said, starting to really get irritated with every attempt at shifting the blame off him, and onto Tony.

Natasha appraised him. For a minute, no one spoke. Steve engaged himself with his drink. He imagined the subject of Tony had been closed, but he was wrong again.

“If he did lapse, he didn’t get the drinks from me,” Natasha said. “Thor hadn’t served him anything stronger than a beer in ages, either.”

“’Suppose I should ask Bruce whether his surgical spirit repertory had experienced any shortfall as of late?” Steve said before he could bite his tongue.

Something sparked in Natasha’s eyes. “Bruce?”

Steve was already regretting speaking up.

“Forget it,” he said, although he suspected she would do no such thing.

Rather than interrogate him, Natasha poured him another finger. The glass in Steve’s hands had almost been drained; he couldn’t remember drinking it.

“You know, Tony could be so unkind sometimes,” Steve said. “But only under pressure. I should’ve been less overbearing … I should have offered him support, but I … how could I have, when nothing he spoke was the truth?”

He had tried to sound casual, as though these were merely throwaway what-if’s of no real importance, but he was sure he had fallen far off the mark; Natasha’s eyes were a little too understanding. As a burning sensation swelled in his throat, something wet slid down the side of his nose, and they sat there, looking at each other in dim ambient light, and from the expression on Natasha’s face, he felt as though he had stepped into a trap.

“There now, Steve,” she purred. “Don’t you feel a lot better now that you’ve worked all those bottled emotions out?”

“Much,” Steve admitted sheepishly, voice hoarse. He knocked back the new glass; it burned less the second time around. “Sorry I, uh, took it out on you.”

“Don’t,” Natasha said, “I made you to.”

Steve deflated, and slid down the chair now that what felt like tons of weight had slid off his shoulders. Natasha hesitated, but picked up his empty glass and, rounding the bar counter, came to rest her hand on the top of Steve’s head in a startlingly maternal, un-Natasha-like gesture. He closed his eyes at the touch, though, and hated himself for wishing it was Tony in her stead.

“You agree, though, that the way he left things is less than ideal,” he mumbled.

“Of course, but it is Tony we’re talking about. When has he ever been a functional part of society?”

Steve, reluctantly, had to agree.

***

Being drunk was a curious sensation.

Steve felt flushed in the already hot, crowded Town Court. He also felt as if he was floating; every thought and worry in his head was wiped gently away, leaving nothing but a vague, untraceable happiness. He stood there in the shadows of the wall feeling immensely relaxed, only dimly aware of Sam and Bucky’s presence next to him.

The walls of the room had all been covered in crimson hangings, and the rows of benches had vanished; instead, they lay pushed against the walls and provided seats for the hundred-odd masquerade guests, men, women, and children, who currently mingled at the center of the room.

“There’s enough Buffalo Bills to last for the next ten years,” said Bucky as another man dressed in a fringe-sleeved jacket breezed past. “The costumes are dull this year … there you go, look.”

One of the Bills had been about to step off for refreshments, but at the sight of Steve, he leapt back to his partner and rejoined the dancing clowns, politicians, and celebrities.

“Wasn’t that Hodge?” Sam asked, puzzled. “What’s he been up to now.”

“I was hoping for something more original,” said Bucky, who suddenly got a dreamy look in his eyes. “Remember the year nine people dressed as _Steve.”_

Sam perked up. “What did his face look like?”

“If the plucked turkey was just a couple shades darker, it would have matched his face.”

Steve huffed. “You told everyone about that?”

Bucky straightened his casual slouch rather suddenly.

“Where are you going?” asked Steve at once, feeling rather alarmed.

“To dance,” replied Bucky, who raised his hat higher on his forehead with a finger, making eye contact with a lady. “S’cuse me.”

And then he was gone, hidden behind the dancing townsmen. As Steve watched the spot where he had last seen him, a wry thought came to him, born no doubt of the brandy he had drunk. It seemed fate was set on keeping one of them miserable at a time: as one failed in love, the other triumphed.

“Are you just going to stand there,” asked a voice Steve recognized, “or will you ask someone to dance? There’s more than three women in need of a partner.”

Steve turned. Sharon Carter, a decidedly least spinster-like schoolteacher Steve had ever met, had broken free of the dancers and come to observe Steve’s skulking in amusement.

“Sorry, lost in my head,” he said, mustering a smile onto his face.

“Indeed,” said Sharon. “And slighted three ladies while in there.”

“I thought I was unpopular.”

Sharon, then, got on her face an expression Steve had last seen on a darker-haired woman, who had called him _obtuse_ at the back of a carriage on its way to a warzone.

“Only among the unsympathetic,” she said. “The day Tony returns will be a sad day for the rest of us … I should save you before they come back.”

“What—?”

In reply, Sharon extended both her arms and left Steve no choice but to take them and escort her into the throng of dancers. Her real intention, however, was to talk to Steve away from the rest of the deputies. She waited until they were positioned in the middle of the floor and the band and the ruckus of steps drowned them out, then took Steve by the hand and said, very seriously, “No word of Tony?”

“Why would there be?” Steve asked her.

Sharon’s brown eyes looked very anxious under her glittering mask. “Because I don’t believe he did what they claim he did.”

“You don’t?” Steve said, concealing with difficulty the rush of relief he felt at her words.

“No, I don’t,” she said firmly. “I take your word for it.”

“Wish I knew who _did_ do it” Steve said bitterly and stopped talking when they had to break up in order to loop around the couple next to them.

When they met at the middle again, Sharon asked seriously, “Never mind that, how are you?”

“I’m fine,” said Steve, wondering why he kept telling people this. “Really.”

“You don’t seem like you enjoy the party.”

“It seems a little, ‘all is well, look how much we have to be thankful for.’ During the war, it was to distract us from the rising body count. Now, who knows. Genocide?”

Sharon looked sharply from left to right. But the fiddle was playing rather shrilly, and even the stomping foot of its player was drowned under the dozens of dancing feet on the floorboards; they had not been overheard.

“Have you been drinking?” she asked suspiciously, leaning closer to his face.

Steve was just coming up with an excuse when the last note of the fiddle played, and the floor stilled and broke off in loud claps.

“Sheriff!”

Ms. Althea had seized the pause and was striding the distance between them with a shuffle of silks. Beside Steve, Sharon narrowed her eyes at him one last time before departing into the opposite direction.

“Well,” said Ms. Althea in a very carrying whisper, staring after Sharon, “someone got an eyeful.”

“You mean Ms. Carter?” Steve said in surprise.

“One has to be blind not to see she likes you and has liked you for ages.”

Steve looked over at Sharon as well; she was standing next to Ms. Hill, already engaged in a conversation as though she had not just arrived at her side of the room. Women were so strange sometimes.

At the corner of the room, the band started on the next song and a dancing coupled bumped into them. Ms. Althea made a displeased sound at the back of her throat and tugged Steve out of the room, stating a wish to speak with him privately. Here, he found himself, again, cornered in a corridor outside the Courtroom, and found his captor equally determined, although about a foot shorter and wearing a golden ballgown.

“Oh, don’t look so spooked, I just wanted to congratulate you on handling the problem with the miners with such discretion,” she said. “I haven’t seen them in days.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Steve said, although he felt it was not by his doing. He made to step out for a refreshment, but she held him back.

“Anything new on the investigation?”

“Oh,” Steve said unenthusiastically, “well, we’re doing the best we can. Did you hear the wires might be back up soon?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, then,” Steve said, trying to muster a smile, “maybe more witnesses will pop up by then.”

“You have one,” she said.

“I—what?” he asked, disconcerted. “Who?”

“Me,” she replied simply. “And I am frankly astonished I’ve not been heard earlier. You see, I had trouble sleeping on the night of the fires. There had been such a horrible racket coming from the forge—more than usual. I… happened to be at the window, the one overseeing the front door of the forge, and I saw something.”

Steve’s earlier wish for refreshment was all but brushed aside as he became suddenly intrigued. Could this finally be their needed clue?

“And what would that be, ma’am?” he asked eagerly.

“I saw, well, this is terribly awkward.” She was wringing her hands. “I saw how Mr. Rogers—your husband—locked the door and left. Then, later, after I had slept very little because I was so troubled, I happened to pass by the window again. It was open so I could get some air, but the smell! Why, I thought it would burn my nose right off! Then I saw _him_ pouring that liquid all over the cornerstones,” she finished and looked expectantly up at Steve. “What do you think?”

“Him?” Steve asked, and at her bemused expression, became frustrated. “You said, him.”

“Yes, your husband.”

A headache was starting to pound behind Steve’s eyes. “You’re saying Tony lit the fire?”

“I am,” said Ms. Althea.

Steve stared at the short, stubby woman.

“Ma’am,” he started, taking a very deep breath, “my husband is not our man.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because he’s my—he can’t—it’s just not possible. What could possibly be his motive?”

Ms. Althea was sorely disappointed in this reception of her confidences because, when she continued, there was a defensive, patronizing air to her presence.

“Then what did he do it for? You haven’t considered the possibility that he likes it. I had a friend once whose boy was absolutely fascinated with fire. Kept playing with it, you see. The doctors said he was not all right in the head. It’s incurable—but quite harmless, I swear. The cure is to let them have their fun _safely_ , see, you can’t make them stop—”

“Tony is _not_ an arsonist,” said Steve loudly.

Before Ms. Althea could say a word, the door to the courtroom was pulled open, and with it, a blast of noise filled the corridor. Steve looked over her shoulder, at the figure surrounded by light. Clint stood there, looking at both of them squished in the corner.

“If you’re going to steal him for the night, you’ll have to get in line,” he said, effectively ending the conversation.

Whether the alcohol had naturally run its course through his system, or Steve’s state of infuriation had burned it up, the party seemed much less exiting to enter the second time around. By the time the raffles started, the room bathed in the golden light of the hanging oil chandeliers was something Steve very much wished to escape from. As he could not leave, however, he stayed back; head bowed, and arms crossed in the corner of the room with a permanent scowl now fixed onto his face as Clint recounted all he had overheard.

“That’s what she did?” said Natasha. “Idiotic woman. Never liked her.”

Steve huffed and all his company turned to look at him.

“Blind Al’s a paranoiac,” Sam comforted after the silence became too awkward for him to bear. “You do know why they call her that, right? It’s nothing, Steve.”

All four of his closest friends had interrupted his solitude fifteen minutes in. The kindest explanation of this behavior would have been that they wanted to cheer him up and act as a buffer. Once he had unsuccessfully tried to get away and noticed none of them had helped themselves to any of the punch, however, Steve started to suspect them of a different motive. All talk seemed to exist only for the reason of keeping him away from the tableful of refreshments; a part of Steve was grateful.

“And she ain’t only one,” said Sam, and started to count with his fingers. “There’s been three fat men, four tall men with mustache, and one bearded cripple, all seen near the bridge around twilight and all wearing a sinister expression.”

“Women,” scoffed Clint, but adopted a visibly less scornful look at Natasha’s withering glare. “I think the stagecoach driver is going to string us up by his reins next time he passes through.”

Their laughter was followed by a round of cheers rose among the crowd; someone had won a turkey.

“It’d be a relief, then, to hear Coulson knows a young and visionary engineer in Denver who’s agreed to come and design us a fireproof bridge at a reasonable prize?” asked Natasha.

“Your network of spies is a maze,” Bucky said, awed.

Natasha, Steve couldn’t help but notice, looked rather flattered at this. Steve, feeling sore about the person whom he suspected to be the source of this rumor as well as the one concerning Tony’s involvement in arson, couldn’t quite muster similar regard.

“And speaking of Coulson,” said Natasha, turning to Steve. “Have you dropped by his place recently? I forgot to tell you: Phil wants to see you.”

Steve sighed; he had been taking long detours evading the perimeter of the building ever since he promised to Fury to make his divorce legal.

“Is it urgent?” he asked.

Natasha’s lips twisted down from one corner. “Probably can wait till tomorrow.”

“Good,” he said, “I think I’ve had enough of ‘talks’ for one day.”

***

Although Steve held all legal papers in great value, there was precisely one person more committed than him. It had been like this from his very first meeting with Coulson twelve years prior when he had just been elected as Sheriff. He remembered it as though it had been yesterday.

He had just come from his swearing in at the townhall where he had accepted the tin star, savoring the triumph of finding a home after becoming adrift following war, when he had—just like today—sat down in front of a balding man.

Naturally, he had thought, with their businesses being so tightly linked, that they would come to work very closely in the upcoming years. He had been impressed to find the sleepy town already under such capable hands, though this had been nothing to how he had felt meeting the taciturn, grey-haired late Mayor Philips.

Steve’s work was, according to him, a difficult job that encompassed everything from regulations on the concealed carrying of weapons to keeping the occasional brawling wanted man in control (Steve remembered painfully clutching his pointy star at this point). Philips had then patted Steve’s shoulder in a rather fatherly manner and sent him to his right hand, Coulson, who would draft the required paperwork and background research.

“Not to worry,” Coulson had said. “It is merely a formality. We can’t make exceptions, not even for a man of your … pedigree.”

At this, if Steve had not been mistaken, the serious, thin-lipped man had blushed under his rather badly receding hairline.

“You are a veteran?” Coulson repeated his question. “For the record, please.”

“Yes,” Steve said finally, “I am.”

“How long did you serve?”

“Three years.”

“Until?”

“I got injured. Four months before the end of the war.”

Coulson made a pronounced checkmark against one of his lines. Steve saw his ink pen move four times, twice in one direction and twice in the other. Then he asked, “Unit?”

“Uh, special branch.”

Coulson’s gaze met his. Then he looked down at his options. “Cavalry it is. Final rank?”

“Captain.”

Coulson dipped his pen into the ink bottle. There was a visible smile tugging at the corners of Coulson’s mouth as his pen flied over the curve of the capital ‘C’ to the last ‘n’.

“Well, Sheriff,” he had said, flipping the paper over for Steve to sign, “welcome to Leigh’s Creek.”

Still smiling, Coulson had dismissed Steve with a cheerful goodbye, and turned to his desk to finish some more papers piled there. Steve had stood outside his office afterwards, quite motionless, and swore he would never, as long as he worked there, become a disappointment in the face of such open admiration.

The promise held—for over a decade—until that very December morning when Steve trudged up the stairs of COULSON’S ATTYS & COUNCELORS & LAW into the upstairs office of the judge, who looked grave behind his desk. He wordlessly handed over a single page, so unusual compared to the hefty sheets these visits usually brought on, and before Steve could ask, he spied the heading:

Matthew Murdoc

ATTORNEY AT LAW

86 MARKET STREET

_San Francisco, California, November 11, 1879_

_Issuance of Proceedings for Divorce_

And under it, undeniably, was Tony’s curved signature.

“San Fran—?” he started, but the rest of the city was drowned by a voice not unlike a cannon fire, and Steve instinctively ducked his head, expecting to find the roof collapsing upon them.

“Steve,” cried a voice. “ _Steve!”_

Footsteps pounded down to them from the still swinging door, and Steve fought to focus his gaze on Bucky’s exited, glowing face.

“There you are,” he said breathlessly. “Have you heard? We found one!”

“What?” Steve asked, miles away.

“What ‘what’? An informant,” said Bucky, impatiently. “Fury’s been sending letters all over the country for naught but— _we got one back.”_

“We—we have a lead?” asked Steve, hardly able to stop the hope swelling inside his chest like a balloon.

“The man arrived at Julesburg by rail today," Bucky panted. "Happy has gone to pick him up in his stage right now. It’s gonna take a week, though ... lots of stagecoach stopovers on the way, the guy is apparently in bad shape…”

Steve all but stumbled to get out of the wooden chair as he felt the rush of joy surge in him that propelled him up. Really, even the man’s condition did not alarm him; being the only witness alive, Steve would expect nothing less. On the other side of the desk, a pair of eyes bored into the back of Steve’s head, who felt a certain disquiet. The last thing he wanted was for Bucky to start investigating what the new-found paper was for.

Steve hastily tucked the paper in his hands into the folds of his jacket, seized Bucky’s arm and tugged him along with him out into the chilly December air.

As the weeks had crept on, Steve could not help but notice, even through the haze of his new misery, that Bucky seemed to be taking charge. Perhaps because he was determined to make up for having put Steve through the torturous night of dance; perhaps because of Steve’s descent into torpidity stimulated his dormant knack for leadership, Bucky was now the one at the head of investigation.

“We only need one proof,” he kept saying. “Just a document about a paid murder signed up by him, a sworn word by a witness, a whistleblower— _anything_ —to get a warrant on his ass, and that’s it. Wrapped, done, finished. Which do you think he is…?”

Witness, accomplice, family, every possible connection or timeline tying them to one another, they raked over them, Steve joining in at intervals. He would have been happy to sit alone in silence, get paperwork done, trying to fool his mind off the one unsigned paper in his possession, but Bucky insisted on his attendance in ever more unlikely debates simply, Steve was aware, to keep him from brooding.

“If we prepare for him,” was Bucky’s constant justification, “we’ll get the information faster, and have Stane eating water and crackers quicker.”

So, the next weekend found them under the porch in wait for Happy’s stage with mixed feelings. There had been steady news in the papers about arrest, though of the three arrests made in the last month, they doubted one of them was genuine. Steve, meanwhile, stared into the snow-covered remains of the forge not far off on the other side of the wide street. promising both to himself and Tony, _See, I can do this without you…_

With a rattle, the stage was pulling up, horses’ hooves kicking up clumps of snow when it skidded to a slushy halt, snow spilling off the roof and platting, startlingly white, onto the colored snow at their feet. As they watched Happy climb down the vehicle, anticipation thickened amidst them.

“He’s willing to talk?” Sam said, his breath misting the air. “Is he not aware snitching could cost him his life?”

“Stane doesn’t _exactly_ strike me as the sparing sort,” jumped in Bucky. “If he’s not dead in a ditch somewhere remote, he mustn’t be much of threat to Stane.”

Steve mulled this over: how did Stane let a slip like this happen? Had he been so sure of his immunity he took one look at this person he considered nothing but a servant—an old, poor, working-glass man with little connections—and overestimated how deep his loyalty went or, knowing Stane’s modus operandi, how far his bribes carried?

“Or,” Bucky suddenly said, sounding weird, “he counted on outliving him.”

There was a loud _clank_ as Happy opened the door of the stagecoach and the witness stepped out, with hunched shoulders, wizened, skin so pale it blended into his white, wispy hair. Clint let out a throaty, muffled sound of shock: nothing this old had entered the town in living memory; Sam’s hands spasmed as though he was readying himself to catch the man should he keel over any second, and Bucky whistled under his breath, “Can his words be trusted?”

“I don’t know,” Clint said. “But we’d better get those words quick before we have to bury him.”

Steve trod on his toes because, despite the man’s obvious age, the look he bent upon Clint showed that his mind was not so addled under his a long, worn jacket and washed-out, pin-striped pants.

“Good day, sir,” the old man greeted, coughed, but offered a steady hand for Steve to shake. His grasp was firm. “Edwin Jarvis.”

“Steve Rogers,” Steve answered in kind, and noted no change in the man’s face at the reveal of his identity. Steve’s appreciation of him grew. “We have got a few questions we would like you to answer in private.” Steve turned to Happy, who was hovering behind the man with his hand held out as though wishing to escort him. “There’s no need for you to accompany us further, Happy. Thank you.”

Still, Steve saw Happy hover as they withdrew indoors. They lead Jarvis to their desks, arranged so that there were room for five chairs in the middle. Showing an admirable presence of mind, Sam rushed to cover the fifth in a wool blanket for Jarvis who seated himself gratefully, leaving Sam, Clint, Bucky and Steve to squeeze side by side on the facing chairs.

The man was stroking his cane, and his milky green eyes roved from Steve to the others and back to Steve again.

“So young,” he spoke up, “to be in charge of so many.”

Steve merely looked at him. Jarvis’ eyes slid over to Steve’s star.

“Don’t think I don’t know why you’ve invited me here,” he said abruptly.

“Will you help us then?” asked Steve, his heart now hammering against his ribs.

“It is not always that one gets asked about their previous places of employment,” Jarvis mused quietly. “Us little people tend to be forgotten about, even by our own masters. I was one of the lucky ones—under Mr. Howard Stark’s roof,” he added, in answer to their questioning looks. “One of the best men. Bright, very bright. He used to tell me I should think of him before divulging any trade secrets. I rather think he was jesting.”

“Stark,” Steve repeated.

They traded looks; unless United States had suddenly acquired a penchant for rich Starks, they had just identified their old man as their so far most promising lead into Stark Industries’ business.

“Until you retired?” Steve confirmed.

“Until he died, sir. In 1858.”

Jarvis looked so troubled by this Steve was about to apologize, but he was interrupted.

“I thought Stark still made weapons during war?” Bucky asked, confused.

“He didn’t. His company did.”

“Ah,” said Sam gently from Steve’s right side. “How did it happen?”

Jarvis blinked. “You—you’re not familiar with this? Ah, well, I suppose it only haunts the partial.”

Jarvis gazed into space for a moment or two: he seemed to be gathering courage. As the four of them regarded him eagerly, Jarvis screwed up his eyes and started to speak.

“It was a long time ago. I cannot pretend it has not felt even longer. On that day, they—the whole family—attended a charity ball for Free Hospital. I watched them leave from the front door. Curious,” he said, “how to this day I still remember how they were dressed, how I promised I would have supper ready by eight. They always ate at eight, even if sometimes separately. Still … they never came back. After they had left, a kitchen maid from across the street came running while I was polishing the dinnerware. The way the girl rattled the door I thought—” There was a tremble to his hands that had little to do with his age. “There had been an explosion.”

The hair on the back of Steve’s neck stood up. Jarvis’ hoarse voice seemed to come to him as if from a distance as the sound of cannon fire reverberated through the intervening years. He saw what had happened next like he himself had been present.

“… I was young back then. I ran outside where there was quite the crowd, most treating the injured. Burns, fragment wounds. And the crater … right there, in front of the ball. We could not believe such thing would happen in America … not in Manhattan, not in daylight.”

“So, it’s been twenty-one years,” Bucky did the math, and did not sound happy about the sum.

“Correct, sir, in a week. It’s when I often bring flowers to the mausoleum, so you must forgive me for not writing back right away. I was at first unwilling to break the tradition.”

“Does Obadiah Stane ever go there? I believe he was a friend of the family?”

“Obadiah Stane?” repeated Jarvis like he hadn’t quite understood Bucky’s question. “I’m afraid I have not seen him since the funeral, sir.”

Bucky and Steve exchanged another long look.

“Do you remember anything, anything at all about him?” said Steve, subconsciously leaning forward.

“I remember him,” Jarvis affirmed. “A serious man.”

“Talk to him?”

“Not directly. It was not my place. I know only what I happened to overhear while serving Mr. Stark. There were some words we exchanged as I let him in the house, but I do not see how inquiries on whether the master was home would be of any consequence to you.”

“Anything special you remember about him?” Steve lead eagerly.

“Only that Mr. Stark trusted him enough to name him as his successor if something was to happen to him.”

Clint hummed. “What’s special about that?”

Jarvis closed his eyes as though he could not bear to voice his thoughts.

“Well, it’s not my place to speak ill, of course, but I rather think he lacked the same vision I saw in Mr. Stark.”

“That is the most British copout I’ve ever heard,” said Sam.

They sniggered.

Jarvis’ lined mouth crinkled, and he cut back on the censor. “He is a miserable man.”

“What about his background?” Steve felt Bucky scoot forward in his seat as he inquired, “Do you remember anything unusual?”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Jarvis, frowning.

“Was he rich? Did Howard Stark know his family? Anybody or anything suspicious about his history.”

There was a silence as Jarvis digested the flood of questions.

“As I recall, he became wealthy in the gold rush of 1849. I rather think he later came to regret being so frank about his origins in the thrill of making friends in what some call the higher society. He was an orphan—cholera, I presume. He could have used motherly influence, though. He was ruthless—a good business sense—but ruthless. Money just found its way to him.”

One word caught Steve’s attention and held it. “Ruthless?”

“Clinical, calculating … ambitious. Now, one could have used all of those to describe Mr. Stark as well, but to me, they have a more severe sound to them when connected to Mr. Stane’s character. There was a kind of hunger in him that wasn’t there in Mr. Stark’s case,” Jarvis said, and shrugged. “I guess the difference comes from growing up poor rather than being born rich.”

“So, the guy couldn’t handle being unimportant?” said Sam, disgusted. “Sounds like someone who doesn’t deserve to be.”

“Indeed, but he coveted it, very eagerly so. And whatever he wanted, he made sure he got. Among other things, he showed a disturbing interest towards young master.”

With a start, it occurred to Steve that when Jarvis had spoken of family, he meant there had been a _child_ on that doomed carriage.

“By which you mean Howard Stark’s only heir?” Bucky said relentlessly, for he was, as they all were, determined to know the full story. “Anthony Stark, wasn’t he?”

It was like a cold shiver rocked Jarvis’ old frame at the sound of the name.

“I did not like how Mr. Stane looked at him.” Jarvis’ hollow chest was rising and falling unsteadily now. “He looked at him and saw his father. Anthony was more than that.”

“Yes, but back to Stane—” said Clint.

“I should not think the death of a child is less important than the misdoings of that insufferable man,” said Jarvis, with dignity. “It is exactly because of men like you that nine-year-old boy died. Work … always work. Should have left the gentlemen’s club early once in a while … got to know his own son. If Howard Stark had listened to me that day—if he had not taken his son with him, to bore him to d-d-death at a ball …”

For once, Clint had no retort. As Steve watched the man in front of them broke down in quiet sobs, Clint was starting to color. Steve cleared his throat.

“I think we’re done here today. Sorry if we’ve reminded you of things you’d rather forget,” he said, drawing back his seat and rising to his feet. “You must be tired. We’ve put you up at the saloon.”

Jarvis laboriously straightened as well, white at the lips and wiping his nose, quite dignified, on a handkerchief which he had fished from a pocket of his striped pants.

“Oh, that is very kind of you,” he sniffed in a muffled manner and pocketed the cloth.

They stuck to his heels until Jarvis slowed down at the doorway.

They nearly ran into him; frozen, quite suddenly, before Steve’s pushed-aside desk. There on the edge of it, turned away from the seat and towards them, was the photograph of Tony. At the sight of it, Steve’s throat tightened. But he was not alone in this storm of feelings.

“Are you all right, mister?” Sam asked Jarvis, who looked as though he had forgotten how to breathe.

Jarvis blinked rapidly. “Yes, I—yes, I am quite all right,” he said, and even managed a self-depreciating, little laugh. “My old mind must have done tricks to me after all this reminiscing.”

Steve noted, though, that he sounded like he considered this improbable.

“However,” Jarvis went on, pointing a finger at the picture frame. “I could have sworn this young gentleman bears a startling resemblance to old Master Howard in his thirties…”

“Oh, that’s Tony, Steve’s—” Bucky begun, but shot an alarmed look at Steve and closed his mouth so quickly his teeth clicked together.

But Jarvis had not heard anything past the first words which he repeated, barely out loud.

“Tony?” he breathed.

Then he went very white. That was all the warning they got before the man went down like a puppet with cut strings and Steve had to rush to save Jarvis’ head from the sharp edge of his desk. Down on the floor, cradling the limp, ashen-faced man, Steve shared wide-eyed glances with his friends.

“What in the name of God,” swore Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this, you've just gone through a 13K chapter. Whoops. It was either going to be 8K + 5K but the endings didn't quite satisfy...  
> I am so, so, so sorry but I just had to end it in that cliffhanger.  
> And I can't promise it will be the last.


	4. Old Money, New Money

Once Jarvis came to, it took several moments to overcome his state of agitation—and then several more to overcome Bruce’s declaration that his patient needed rest—but, at last, Bruce was persuaded to go but not before making sure Jarvis was to be kept in a reclined position for further questioning.

They thus carried four chairs to his bedside in one of the holding cells and positioned themselves comfortably. Steve hesitated to give him Tony’s photo—if this was to protect himself or Jarvis, Steve did not care to explore.

“Thank you,” said Jarvis softly when he accepted the frame, holding it like it was made of the most delicate glass. “It’s the mouth. I could always tell a Stark by his mouth, so very severely set lips.”

Steve, having spent a good while with said mouth, begged to disagree but stayed mum.

“He is alive?” Jarvis asked hopefully.

“Yes, he is. At least, the man in the picture is.”

“And they cannot be one and the same?”

Steve bit his cheek. “I grant that,” he said eventually, “but what proof do you have?”

“You are unhappy with my assumption,” Jarvis noted correctly. “Do you not trust its source? I _am_ an old man, sir, but I should know how to tell apart the similar facial structure of the man I served for four decades.”

During the following silence, Jarvis picked at Bucky’s coat that had been rolled and tucked under his head.

“Explosion, you said?” Sam began tentatively. “Was there a body?”

Jarvis swallowed.

“Body? No, I should not say there was much left to identify. All declared dead. In the Stark mausoleum we buried three empty caskets. Every December I have felt empty, as if Anthony Stark never truly came home. Now I know why.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint put in loudly, “did you say, _declared dead?”_

“The explosion was—not scaled. It tore through everything. The carriage shaft was found a hundred-and-fifty feet from the site of the accident. It had pierced trough the two walls of the carriage. There—there was blood on it. No one could tell whose—”

“Good Lord,” said Bucky, feebly.

“Is it possible someone, an outsider, had pulled Anthony away from the carnage?” Steve asked, feeling mildly sick.

“We did ask around, but the crews cleaned up the area overnight to allow for normal business operations the next day, and in doing so they destroyed physical evidence that might have helped investigators solve the crime. Stark Industries was in shambles after the stocks dropped. We could not quite figure out from whose pocket the funeral expenses should be paid.”

Jarvis seemed to gain strength from their astonished faces.

“Despite the civil casualties, it was clear that Howard Stark had always been the intended target, suggesting it was done by radical opponents of his new direction in social justice. But to kill the whole family … what an unnecessary waste of life. But Anthony survived, did he not? The problem is, according to every practitioner of medicine and several other scientists, he _should_ have died. He can’t be alive. I don’t get it.”

Jarvis looked down at the picture as though expecting Tony to reach out and explain it to him.

The notion struck to Steve as something he would seek from Tony as well, and this, above anything, won him over as the man finished heartfeltly, “But he is. _He is.”_

“Could Bruce back this up—scientifically, I mean,” Bucky asked the cell at large. “This miracle survival of a rotisserie man?”

“I don’t know,” said Steve, frowning at the picture of Tony, whose chest was just cropped out by the picture frame. “Sir, when you said a piece of wood flied through the wagon…”

“Yes,” confirmed Jarvis. “Is he badly hurt?”

Over on the other seats, three heads turned, but Steve did not meet their looks, nor could he think of anything else to say except, “There, uh, is a scar.”

Bucky, who had been taking a sip of water, choked. Sam banged him on the back as Bucky couched, shooting a wet-eyed, alarmed glance at Steve, who now knew the old man’s tale had won over another.

Never once, in the three years they had been married, had Steve asked where the scars had come from. Why? Had he deep down known it would go unanswered, unconsciously keeping the walls of his badly-put-together marriage up before they came crumbling down on their own in the worst way possible? And why did this lie in particular hurt so much? Steve stared ahead of him without seeing what was going around him and did not notice Sam had gotten up to fetch more water before he set a glass on both Bucky and his hands.

“You know, I just can’t believe someone would survive all that,” Clint said, laid far back in his seat that was balanced on two legs, “and come out of it fine—even mentally so.”

Steve smiled hollowly.

“Impossible? Current evidence seems to be to the contrary, wouldn’t you say?”

They all sipped their waters in the following silence as the appreciation rippled amongst them. Then came the dreaded question.

Jarvis wet his lips nervously. “Can I—can I see him?”

Steve’s insides clenched like a fist. He could not tell Jarvis the truth. He pretended to dust off invisible dirt off his pants to avoid answering.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” said Sam in a mollifying tone. “That is, we don’t know where he is.”

“Oh,” said Jarvis.

It was hard to describe the feelings that rattled across Jarvis’ face right then. Disappointment would not quite be adequate. Shame had Steve’s insides clenching even tighter.

“Well, he was— _is_ —the adventurous sort. He got that from his father—never stayed still, that man.” Jarvis then said coaxingly, “Has he gone very far, do you think?”

“We don’t know,” Sam repeated.

“You still love him,” Jarvis said.

He kept his eyes on Steve’s but Steve saw what had prompted this sudden remark; Steve’s ring still adorned the finger on his left hand which was supporting his propped leg. He hid his hand as if to escape the subject this way.

“Yes,” said Steve flatly while his mind had wandered long way from the Sheriff’s Office, back to the weeks spent in Sacramento. They seemed so far away; they had always felt too good to be true, like he had stolen them from a normal person’s life, someone who hadn’t fought a war and come out of it a different person, someone who could settle down…

Now, it seemed, Tony hadn’t been what one would consider civilian, either.

“… our best lead, who we didn’t even know we had, was lost right on the eve of investigating Stane? That doesn’t seem suspicious to any of you?”

Steve had lost track of the conversation.

“Are you still theorizing Tony was kidnapped?” Sam sighed.

“I’m saying he could have gone on his own will before it came to that,” Bucky said. “He’s never been known for his skills at self-preservation.”

The temperature of the cell might have dropped several degrees along with the sobering subject. Bucky and Sam were angled towards each other, chairs swung around, whereas, behind them, Clint was looking at them avidly. Jarvis’ eyes appeared to be alarmedly swiveling backwards and forwards from one man to another.

“So, you’re saying Tony is currently designing weapons for his father’s—or, I guess, his own—company?” Sam argued, arms folded. “I guess that would serve more excitement than a smith’s work.”

“Not if someone is blackmailing him to do it.”

 _“That’s_ your story?” Sam cackled. “Riveting stuff.”

Bucky did not reply; his imagination was racing ahead, far beyond them. Steve took this lull in the dispute to glance at Jarvis. The man had turned his focus on his lap where his knobby knuckles were white around his grip on the photograph.

“Maybe we should have this someplace else—” Steve started to suggest but was cut off.

“None of you remember Stane’s letter?” Bucky said, standing up and giving each of them an intense look by turn. “How he wrote about his best worker? No?”

“The evidence is pretty thin. Nonexistent, I would even say,” Sam reasoned, forestalling any questions for further notice. “We’re working on a lot of assumptions here. A letter is no smoking gun.”

“No, it isn’t, but I’ll do you one better.” Bucky pointed to the general direction of the cell door. “A goddamn smoking bridge.”

Bucky then threw himself back on his seat where he stayed slouched, looking brooding until he finally spoke up again.

“Bad luck.”

“What is?” Steve asked absently, occupied with his own thoughts.

“That the coach drove over the explosive at the exact time of detonation … think about it, in order for the shaft to go through the carriage, it must have been set off just under the horses.”

Steve could see it happening again. He watched a horse-drawn carriage bobbing along a street on its spindly wheels, closing in on the soon-to-be ignited charge laying on the street in daylight … but there, Steve’s imagination could go no further, for he could not see how the timing could have possibly worked.

“Or,” said Steve, as the obvious fact took hold, “it was _on_ the carriage.”

“Okay, Mr. Pinkerton…” drawled Sam.

Bucky and Steve ignored him.

“Just look at who got what he had always wanted,” Bucky said, standing up again and starting to pace on the corridor outside the cells. “The position as one of the most powerful men in this country … the biggest weapons factory on the western hemisphere … finally feeling as important as he wants!”

“James,” said Sam.

“Don’t you remember the miners?” Bucky’s voice said from out of sight.

“Vividly,” Sam replied.

“Exactly … what if Stane sent them after Tony to bully him into leaving … it’s not a coincidence that we, every person Tony called a friend, _all_ happened to come across them in the saloon, the streets, or wherever.”

“Yeah, but … if he had unsuccessfully wanted Tony dead twenty years ago, why haven’t we just found his body—sorry,” Sam added at Steve’s expression. “And why not tell us and have us deal with it?”

“Listen,” said Bucky grimly, returning behind the ironwork. “Tony is an idiot. Big brain but not adaptable to life skills. It’s not a very good mixture when the only thing bigger than his wits is his heart. I’d say it was very easy to get him to crack.”

“He’s got a point,” said Clint, looking at Sam.

“But this is just—just so _unlikely_ ,” said Sam desperately. “How did Stane find Tony when we all thought him dead? Why would he want him to make a weapon when he’s got whole stocks of them himself?”

“Who knows, the guy sounds nuts anyway,” Clint said, and gave an enormous stretch. He massaged at his stomach. “What’s the time?”

Steve glanced at the lone, barred window. The daylight streaming in was starting to dim; dinner time must have ended—and as if to prove a point, Bucky’s stomach growled loudly. They quieted.

But once the silence fell, Steve’s brain filled with blank buzzing, like all his scrambled thoughts had a sound, which allowed little room for picking apart any of them. He stared hopelessly down at the picture in Jarvis’ lap. _Tony had left_ … but he had been threatened … _he won’t wish to see you_ … neither could Steve leave him there… _he had sent the papers by post_ … their marriage was dead, but Tony needn’t be…

And then the newly found well of astounding discoveries threw them another bucketful, and excitement rose inside Steve so quickly that he almost kicked Sam’s chair leg.

“The letter!” Steve blurted out suddenly. “The one Bruce found—it’s from _him!”_

Clint’s chair thumped back onto all fours, and Sam turned to stare at Steve in turn.

“You—you’re sure?”

Steve could not understand why Sam looked so shocked. It was so obvious, so clear to Steve: he knew that the evidence was not enough for a warrant, but the idea of Stane’s involvement, of having kidnapped Tony, was the first thing that finally made sense in months.

“What are you thinking,” Sam asked Jarvis.

Jarvis looked contemplative; his brow was wrinkled even deeper than usual.

“I think,” he replied slowly, “that if a man like Obadiah Stane threatened me, I would comply with just about anything.”

Steve stared at the cell wall, then made a grimace of frustration.

“If we can’t get a warrant—” he said.

“No,” said Bucky.

Steve stared at him; he could not understand why they were all looking at him as though he was unreasonable. It looked for a moment like Bucky was gearing up for a lecture but whatever flood was going to burst through his thinly pressed lips, was detained by a couching fit from the cot.

Steve sprung up along with Bucky, kneeling by Jarvis as his body was racked by a dry, wheezy fit.

“Can I offer you anything,” asked Steve, who could empathize with what Jarvis must have been feeling right then.

“Do not pity me in vain,” rasped Jarvis after a beat and peered up at Steve shortsightedly. “I know my days are counted. I only wish to live long enough to see Anthony one more time.”

He sounded a little morbid, and perhaps realized it, for he smiled more warmly as he went on, “I am not complaining; it is a fact that I can only hope to see the man he has become.”

“I will bring him to you,” Steve said fiercely.

“If you so wish to promise, do it for your sake, not for the old man.”

Steve squeezed his wrinkly hands. “I promise.”

“You’re gonna get arrested,” warned Sam, behind Steve’s back.

“Perhaps,” said Steve.

“You’re not a United States marshal,” Bucky said. “Your job is tied to this town. If you leave, there’s gonna be an election—”

“Then they’d better pick well,” Steve said, standing up with a creak of boot leather and reached to rip off his star.

It clattered to the floor with ringing finality.

***

“What do you plan to do?” Bucky insisted. “Walk to San Francisco?

“If that’s what it takes,” said Steve, not pausing his strides.

Bucky blocked the office’s door again with his body.

“Steve, you cannot run from it,” he said impatiently. “I know what Coulson gave you.”

Steve pretended not to hear him.

“When I see something gone wrong,” he said simply, “I can’t just sit still and watch.”

“That uniform’s really caused you to escalate,” said Bucky. “There’s no time for one-man rescue mission.”

Steve tried to push past him again. “But if we know where he is, why not…?”

“It’s _exactly_ because of where he is! He’s a thousand miles from here. Inside the surely most armed factory in the country. They make war their business, they’ll recognize you before you get past the lobby. What are you gonna do when they start shooting at you?”

“Move faster,” Steve said, but went back to his desk to retrieve another box of ammunition.

“Stay here, Steve,” Bucky pleaded as he watched Steve rush about. Soon, he let go of the doorjamb and he spread his hands in defeat. “I’m fighting a losing battle, aren’t I? You’re going to do it anyways and I will have to clean up after you.”

“No one asked you to, Buck,” Steve said.

“Because _you_ listen so well when asked? Listen to this: go home. Don’t you have something better to do?”

“Yes, I do,” Steve said, plan set.

At home, he began to stride blindly around the rooms, opening half-empty wardrobes and chests and picking up clothes only to replace them on the same piles, barely conscious of what he was doing, as random phrases from Jarvis echoed in his head: _he showed a disturbing interest towards young Master … looked at him and saw his father … if a man like Obadiah Stane threatened me, I would comply with just about anything …_

A kind of numbness and a sense of complete unreality were upon Steve, but he did not care; he was even glad of it. He didn’t want to think about anything that had happened since he had gotten out of bed. He did not want to examine the thoughts, fresh and sharp as photographs, which kept flashing across his mind. The Starks, killed. Tony, scarred, tapping on his chest at the merest mention of Stane. Tony … gone … Tony, lifting molds of steel from a pail…

Steve felt sickened and angry: at this moment Tony could be poring over designs meant to destroy instead of fix, could be forced to be part of a system that was the reason the technology of warfare had surpassed the technology of health care during the last war. If Stane, with the help of Tony, was to come up with something _worse_ than the Starling rotary cannon…

Steve felt as though a stone had slid through his chest into his stomach. He remembered well enough: he had even handled the thing as they moved between fronts. It had brought a feverish flush of power from feeling its powerful kicks onto the faces of his men as they spun the brass crank…

He moved towards the wardrobe again with a heavy chest. Since the fire, there had been only one spare jacket, which he had not worn save from that one night of weakness in this very room. Steve warred with himself: he pondered first, if it would be in bad taste to be seen wearing Tony’s last gift _by_ Tony; and secondly, if there was a battle to be had, was a uniform a requirement.

Deciding no for the former, and yes for the latter, Steve wiggled into thick wool of the uniform. It was a much tighter fit than he had expected, having lost some of the bulk required to carry the 60-pound equipment. He trailed down with his fingers the row of golden buttons.

“Hello, old friend,” he sighed.

And he was just about to leave, hand on the handle when he spied the ring still on his hand.

He removed it, revealing a strip of much paler, Irish skin underneath. _Just leave it,_ he told himself; why was it so hard? Finally, it fell from his palm and Steve closed the bedroom door behind him quickly, as though to resist the temptation to pick it up again.

One more stop.

***

Steve sprinted through the dark town. It was deserted; people had long disappeared for supper inside their houses. Steve tore up the steps, onto the porch and through the oak doors of the townhall, and off up the mahogany stairs, toward the second floor.

Soon he was hurtling along the carpeted corridor, at the end of which was—

“HALT!”

Steve skidded to a stop and stared at the mouth of a rifle. On the other end, was Ms. Hill, who lowered her weapon, once she identified the disturbance.

“Sheriff,” she said in a half-bemused, half-disapproving tone.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Steve apologized as he pushed past her desk, his steps taking him to the polished dark door, on the other side of which, he could hear voices talking. His fist hovered inches from the door, hesitant.

“… can’t afford mistakes, because if Stane—”

“It’s confirmed.”

It was the voice of Natasha.

“I hope you’re sure, because this launch of the initiative is sooner than I’d have liked.”

“It’s not gonna be a problem, Fury,” replied Natasha. “You know I’m comfortable with anything.”

“I go where she goes,” said Clint’s surprisingly serious voice.

A hot, prickly swoop of betrayal swept through Steve’s body; how could they do this to him now? Under the watchful and somewhat judging eye of Ms. Hill, Steve gathered himself, and pounded his fist on the door to Fury’s office.

“It opens,” called out Fury’s voice from behind it, and Steve rushed inside.

The room looked twice as secretive swimming in the shadows of twilight, but otherwise the office was as still and empty except for the people inside it. To the three’s credit, they all looked unruffled; wearing a mildly curious expression, Fury looked up from his paperwork as though having a deputy, a saloon owner, and an armed secretary in his building was a normal day’s work for him.

“Rogers,” he said jovially. “What can I do for you?”

“With your permission, sir,” Steve said, slipping into parade rest, “I’d like a leave of absence to take care of a personal matter.”

Fury gave him a slow, one-eyed blink. Then he rose from his desk and rounded it, hands in his pockets. He came to stand in front of it, leaning casually backwards onto its edge.

“Ah, I’m afraid you’re getting slower,” he drawled. “Your men have already been here to beg that I’m not to let you go. But what can I say to a man with a plan?”

Steve shot a sore glance at Clint. “Hello, partner,” he said.

Clint was slouching on a leather chair beside Fury’s feet. Wearing clothing appropriate for a mission, with his precision rifle leaning on the armrest, he lifted a lazy hand in acknowledgment and smirked saucily at Steve.

“Look,” said Fury, “I do feel obliged to try and save your life since you are so determined to risk it. And I think, at this point, it may have come to your attention that something’s a bit fishy here.” Fury gestured at the chair next to Clint. “Have a seat.”

Steve, feeling mutinous, sat mechanically.

“There was a meeting, Barton and Romanoff are aware of this, after the end of Civil War. In this meeting, a vision of a sub-organization devoted to the detection and prosecution of those guilty of violating federal law was born. In 1866, it was founded in secrecy by the Department of Justice.”

“You mean a detective agency,” Steve asked, “like Pinkerton?”

Fury chuckled. It was unnerving how, with one eye, you couldn’t tell if his amusement was genuine.

“We are a bit bigger than some private snoop. The government is part of us, and we are part of the government.” Fury set onto Steve’s lap a stack of papers, on which Steve discovered the mysterious eagled logo. _Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division,_ it read.

Steve raised his brows at Fury. “Long name.”

“Bureaucracy,” Fury replied, shrugging. “Had to tick all the boxes.”

It all made odd sense. Fury had not run in the mayoral election at the end of the calendar year ten years ago, but came to hold the elected office as a substitute when the last mayor— _did what?_

“The real mayor,” Steve asked, “where is he? Did you have him removed?”

“Just ‘cause I wasn’t elected doesn’t make me any less real,” Fury grunted. “I convinced him the air was fresher in Tennessee.”

“Right,” said Steve, who felt confused and reassured at the same time.

“I’ve had my _eye_ on you since the war, Rogers. S.H.I.E.L.D. keeps track of remarkable, talented individuals, who, eventually, will help us in preventing what used to be unpreventable.”

“So, this is a test?” Steve asked, and thought of stubby Ms. Althea being a secret agent. “Are all of the town in on this?”

“Just a trusted few. Pym has proven himself useful but doesn’t ask questions.”

A horrible thought was rising in Steve. “And … Tony?”

“You’re just as distrustful of authorities as they told me you were,” Fury said, not unfavorably. “You’re wrong about me, though. I do not have a hand in everything. No, Tony Stark was a different mission which just happened to collide with yours, by your doing.”

Steve turned to look at Natasha, who had not spoken in the past ten minutes. She was standing next to the window with her hip cocked, observing the three of them silently. Catching Steve’s eye, she nudged her chin toward the window.

Steve frowned.

“So he’s not in on … _this?”_ he asked Fury.

“Well, I suspect he suspected. He had a lot of questions after he took that close up look at the papers in my safe. He would’ve made a decent spy.” There was something in his voice that sounded almost _warm_. “He has an innate ability to scent pretense like a bloodhound, no doubt because of his past. Took us years to track him down to a run-down log cabin in upstate New York.”

Steve soaked up this information like a sponge, and then he felt guilty about it; if he so badly wanted the truth, it should come from Tony’s own mouth.

“So … can I leave now?” Steve ventured.

“Ah,” said Fury, a little too casually, “I forgot to tell _my_ plan. And you’ll find it’s been set in motion long before yours. You see, S.H.I.E.L.D. has got their best man infiltrated in Stark Industries: he will get you in. We can’t, however, expect Stane to hand Tony over peacefully once you are there. Natasha and Clint are already in, and since you’re going, I expect a couple of others to follow.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Steve started, about to very much disrespect, “when Tony is involved … if it comes to saving the others or him, I can’t trust my judgement. I won’t risk any more lives than I absolutely have to.”

“Risk!” Fury growled out, “Rogers, if we are lucky, Stane hasn’t cottoned on to the mole in his ranks, but he won’t be so stupid as to not have several armed men guarding, as he put it, his best worker. You may have been able to storm into Wellenbeck by yourself as Steve Rogers, a farm boy from Brooklyn, but you will not find it as easy now when you’re Steve Rogers, the war hero. Getting Tony Stark on our side—away from the hands of the likes of Stane—is worth more than the lives of a couple small-town deputies.”

Steve, propping his elbows on his knees, muscles wound tight, gave Fury a peeved look.

“They have names,” he said coldly.

Just as Fury was observing warily the muscle jumping at Steve’s jaw, footsteps echoed down the hall through the door Steve had left ajar, thinking this would have been over quick. Striding through it, appeared Coulson, Sam and Bucky, the latter two dressed for a fight and carrying enough gear for a week-long trip.

“Ah, seems like a full house tonight,” said Fury, as the heavy packs hit the floor. And then addressed Coulson: “Did you bring it?”

In answer, Coulson walked up to the desk and spread before their eyes a Sanborn fire insurance map of San Francisco, which was colored in pinks, yellows and greens to relate the locations and use of each building as well as its construction material. Stark Industries spread in the right corner of it, far larger than any other house. The map showed its main halls, balconies, main entrances, and barracks.

“The head house,” Coulson told them, pointing at each square in turn. “Stane’s office, west wing. East lies the large industrial halls. There’s five of them. Each connected and accessible through fire doors.”

“What’re these black spots for?” Clint asked, following with his finger the dotted lines of numbered streets and alleys that were interrupted by many black, star-like marks.

“City utilities,” replied Coulson. “Fire and water service.”

“Now we know where to go if we get thirsty,” Sam muttered to Bucky behind Steve.

“We’ve received news of Stane making a weapon that will make the Union Army Balloon Corps look like boys with toys,” said Fury grimly, leaned over the map and jabbing at one of its colorful squares with a stiff finger. “I think we’re all in agreement with each other as to who the design credit goes to. It’s in our interests to see it goes uncredited, and we need to act quick—Stane has had Stark since October. We need to extricate him before Stane finds him disposable.”

A chill went down Steve’s back as he looked down on the map himself. Somewhere in there, in one of these massive halls spotted with shadows by the voluminous, onion-shaped shade of the oil lamp, was Tony. In what condition, their spy had not been able to tell.

Fury was right. They needed to act, fast.

“And before you leave,” Fury said, “I want you to visit Pym.”

***

By sunbreak next morning, they waded through the freezing cold river on horseback. Their steeds stirred the clay at its bottom, turning the water grey in their wake. Once on the opposite bank, they followed the river upstream through patches of snow, their horses occasionally missing their footing on a hard, frozen tuft of grass. The hills swelled gradually on their right and left, their path carrying them along a valley in between, on a path of impacted desert floor.

At the valley’s far mouth, opened a view of a limestone French château, almost out of place with its grandeur in the middle of nothing. Its walls were so dazzlingly white reflecting the sun rising behind their backs that Steve’s eyes all but begun to water just regarding it. At a wooden sign, Steve looked at its two arms. The one pointing back the way they had come read: _Leigh’s Creek, 20 miles._ The arm pointing at the lane curving behind the house said: _Julesburg, 150 miles._

Once in the grounds, having passed under a decorated ranch gate, they still seemed none the nearer. Steve could see several buildings now, nestled between the two steep hills: the stables, cowhand housing and a small chapel. They rode a short way with just the wind passing thought whipping their hair and the horses’ manes. It dried the murky river water lingering on them, leaving behind streaks of white.

They soon discovered this was not taken kindly. After the stables, where their shivering horses had been taken to dry indoors, they had walked straight to the main house. At its thirty-feet-long stone entry they were greeted by a housekeeper, who, after bestowing upon them a look of deepest repugnance, briskly lead them upstairs, where Steve found himself gaping at the Rembrandts, Gainsboroughs, Reynolds, and Gobelin tapestries decorating the walls of the staircase.

Here, they were met by raised voices.

“Us Pyms can trace our wealth and lineage to Dutch aristocracy of the eighteenth century,” the first voice said, seemingly echoing around the gilded trims and details. “Not to mention your mother—a van Dyne!”

“And why should it stop because of my choice?” shouted back another.

Something was slammed against a desk.

 _“This_ man hails from Wyoming!”

“Unlike your other men, he’s actually literate!”

This was followed by the longest pause so far.

“Don’t you dare elope with him!” cried the first voice now, sounding desperate. “I forbid it!”

Next, a door slammed. Up at the ceiling, below a magnificent fresco, a chandelier shook and winked at them. Out of the door in the middle of the hallway had come a woman, now striding fast towards them, and Steve saw with a start that it was Ms. Hope Pym.

Unlike three month ago, Hope looked much more like the heiress she was; her hair pulled back and pinned. She was not dressed in pants and a jacket, but in a sleek dress. She looked furious. Even as they passed her, she hardly said a word.

Behind the slammed door, they found a lush, Chippendale-style office and a distressed Hank Pym, who lifted his bowed head at their entry.

Steve wasn’t sure whether he liked Pym or not. He supposed he had been ready to help when needed, but he had always seemed somewhat vain and much too critical of Tony without any discernible cause.

“Mr. Pym,” said the woman, relieving Steve of the responsibility to make empty greetings, “your guests have arrived.”

Pym rose from behind his desk, on top of which were several fallen items. He still looked rather flushed from anger from his lined forehead to his silvery beard as he straightened to greet them.

“Ant—” Bucky broke off into a tremendous cough. “Mr. Pym.”

Ignoring them, Pym walked to a side table of decanters and filled a glass of liquor for himself. Over its rim, he gave them a dirty once-over. Steve stared back, unimpressed.

“So,” he spoke finally, “you’ve come to me for help.”

He seemed remarkably unabashed for a man who had just been caught shouting elitist beliefs in less than put-together manner. Steve wasn’t sure whether he liked Pym or not. He supposed he had been ready to help when needed, but he had always seemed somewhat vain and much too critical of Tony without any discernible cause.

“Frankly,” Sam started, “I don’t know what kind of help we should even expect but given recent developments, I would not be too astonished if it was revealed you have a warship tucked away somewhere around here.”

Pym’s brows hiked up.

“Fury likes to delegate tasks to break up the facts into pieces so small it makes piecing them together impossible,” he said. “I see he has not given up on the tradition. Still the only one who knows the full truth … is him.”

“I didn’t know you were pals,” said Bucky.

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” said Pym, staring deeply into the bottom of his glass. “Do you know your target?”

“Stark Industries.”

Pym spat out some of his drink.

“I have half the mind to refuse,” he said, wiping his chin. “I did regret his death, but … I never got along with that bastard. You could say we represented two different sides of the same coin, old money and new.”

He set down his glass and made a meal out of placing it correctly on a silver tray.

“Howard Stark used to be the richest man in America, being worth a hundred million when he died before war. If his son truly is alive, after two decades, the successor running the company has amassed the fortune to twice that.”

Steve felt faint. He was not alone in this; none of them had seen more than two California gold pieces at a time after war.

Sam whistled. “Vanderbilt who?”

Pym stared at him from behind his golden, thin-rimmed glasses.

“Funny you should mention him. You have no small task ahead of you, given the only way to cross the country is by train. Do you know who owns the very rails they move on? Railway stocks are the gold mines of today—horsepower has turned into mechanic thrust, and the wealth of men has waned from heritance to ones luck in _stock market.”_

“I think it’s nice that everyone should have their opportunity to not worry about starving,” said Sam bitterly.

“Obadiah Stane used to starve,” scoffed Pym. “Fat lot of good has his acquired wealth done to us. Railways, guns … things that blow up.”

“You don’t like him,” observed Steve with pleasure. “So you’ll help us.”

“If you have stopped killing off my cattle, yes, I will. There are ears everywhere on your way to west. Hence, you will pretend to be my cowhands acting on my behalf to check the condition of some cattle I’m going to buy from a man in Sacramento.”

Pym eyed them.

“And just for plausibility’s sake, you’re going to take Scott Lang with you.”

Steve grimaced in displeasure at the idea of having to take with them a non-deputized man.

“We can’t guarantee his safety,” he warned.

“Neither can he, but to compensate, I am offering some supplementary assistance. Twenty years ago, I constructed a vest, shot and ball proof, so that people are enabled to return fire. It was miles away from Stark’s technology. Then the war started and suddenly the one thing that mattered was to find more and more intricate ways to kill and harm each other. It appeared the world was not ready.”

“You chose to _not make them?”_ said Steve, aghast. “It would have helped us!”

Pym colored anew. “Well, it’s clear to me this Stark has done a very good job on you—!”

“Imagine how many lives it would have saved!” cried Bucky, equally incensed. “Imagine if Lincoln had worn it.”

“Lincoln was a yarn-spinning fossil whose impact on war and social effort is greatly exaggerated and romanticized. What good would it have done to him or us to be protected in everywhere else but the body part whose injury actually did him in?”

In answer, Bucky crossed his arms, jacket sleeves straining.

“Believe what you want,” said Pym shrewdly, “but it would be no good when the people firing at you would be wearing the very same vest. Oh, yes,” he said, taking great pleasure in their expressions. “Howard Stark wanted to mass-produce it. That was the day I gave up on humanity and retreated here with my—with my family.”

He turned, rather hastily, away from them.

“If your goal was to save lives, how come you’re still running,” Steve asked coolly from the back of Pym’s fancy, embroidered waistcoat. “War ended fifteen years ago.”

Pym swung back around. “Because ten years ago, another Stark came snooping,” he said.

“You _know?”_ asked Steve, stunned. “You knew and you said nothing.”

Pym straightened up in challenge.

“Starks and their idiocy are no business of mine.”

Feeling more than a small amount of irritation towards Pym, Steve had half a mind to turn around and refuse to receive his help, and he would have, had the safety of four others not been on stake. Instead, he watched Pym walk around the room in grim silence. From a drawer of his desk, he drew a key.

“Now,” he said, key on display, “there’s a slight problem. Fury never told me how many of you to expect, and I only have five vests.”

Clint opened his mouth, but—

“I’ll be without,” said Steve.

The room burst into loud arguments.

“No!”

“Idiot.”

Steve had not been expecting such an ardent opposition from Clint Natasha’s end.

“Now that’s a bad idea, if I’ve ever heard one,” said Sam.

Steve scowled stubbornly. He heard a weak sort of moan beside him and looked round to see Bucky gazing, resigned, at the ceiling. His lips moved, silently mouthing something.

“Well,” said Pym, looking unblinkingly at Steve, “let the man have his wish. Come on then, I’ll give you a tour.”

He took them though the house, and in a far-flung room behind a locked door, he dug up five of what looked like thin breastplates—but not of any metal Steve knew. They looked light as Pym handled them, handing them over to the five of them.

Sam looked nervous. “These have been tested, right?”

“Of course,” said Pym bracingly, “but then again, you don’t have a choice, do you?”

At Steve’s side, arms empty, Pym stopped. His eyes roved over Steve’s jacket; and he frowned. Stepping closer, he took the collar of it in his hands, followed the golden line of the buttons and rolled the fabric there between his fingers.

“Hmm,” he muttered quietly.

“Sir?”

Pym let go.

“If you want to leave by tomorrow, you’d better hurry to catch the train at Julesburg,” he said, turning his back on them.

The hair on Steve’s neck was still standing from the unexpected touch when they left the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been seven days, I was reading a really good fic and forgot I had to edit some parts of that Pym scene...  
> Oh, well ... you did get a double chapter last week hah!
> 
> Let's see how on time I'll be next week when we'll get to the REAL action. There might be another 10K+ chapter, depending how I want to break it up... ;)


	5. A Very Stark Heist

Pym’s idea, thankfully, seemed to be working: the Julesburg station house, which was packed with people on the lookout for today’s train, wasn’t sparing them a second look. Steve had stowed his old army jacket regretfully away into the bedroll strapped onto his saddlebags in favor of a more common look. Every now and then he would startle at not feeling his star pinned to his chest. The exception was Scott, who looked quite at home in his worn boots and jeans, and who, as Steve had observed with relief, could ride as well as any of them, if not better.

They were there, they were finally closer to Tony: 1000 miles of tracks stretched westward and disappeared gradually into the snow-covered, overgrown grass. They stood in waiting by it, with their bought tickets and horses snorting in boredom while, far away, the locomotive’s chugging could be heard.

Steve glanced around at them all; they had their own shabby jackets on and looked firmly determined by the shadow of the platform. He looked again at Scott and grabbed him by his sleeve. He pulled him aside.

Steve edged them behind the yellow junction house and into the shadow of a water tower, where he started again.

“It’s not too late to turn back,” he told Scott.

Scott looked from the station building to the tracks disappearing into the horizon. Then he lifted a stubborn jaw at Steve.

“Did Pym tell you to say that?” he asked.

“No?”

“Oh, good. You know this is my choice, right? I may be the only one with kids and I do miss my Cassie terribly already, but. These things, heists and rescue missions…these things are once in a lifetime, man. I got a daughter to take care of, and Mr. Pym happened to promise his blessing if I come back alive.”

A vivid image of a smugly smiling Pym arranging a marriage for his daughter now that the rival was out of the picture flashed into Steve’s head. “I bet,” he said.

“And I’m going to be with _you_ ,” Scott gushed.

He touched Steve’s chest in awe, and Steve wondered how many more Pyms were going to take liberties as Scott’s eyes followed the shape of him. Then Scott seemed to shake himself out of it.

“Sorry,” he said with a sheepish grin, “I got sidetracked there—what I meant is, it’s an honor, boss—er, sir—Mr. Sheriff.”

Steve looked at him gravely. _“None_ of us can guarantee your safety.”

This, finally, turned Scott’s face serious as a windmill creaked above their heads.

“I know. No, seriously, man, I may not be a decorated war hero like you and your company, but there’s good and there’s evil. I want to be a part of the good.” He gestured at the tracks heading westward. “This is the road to my happy ever after. Isn’t yours?”

This was one of those uncomfortable things Scott seemed to have a habit of saying and which made Steve feel a strange mixture of humbling embarrassment.

“You’re a good man, Scott,” he said and, distantly, the sound of the chugging train was becoming louder. “But any man who travels with me calls me Steve.”

“Steve,” Scott said, awed, and they shook hands.

When turned on his heels, Steve heard what he suspected to be a discreet victory dance; a shuffle that sounded like boots dancing against sandy ground; and he allowed Scott this moment of giddiness by not turning around to confirm it.

“Steve!” shouted Bucky, waving an impatient arm at him by the platform. “Come on!”

Steve and Scott jogged back to the horses. The black, gleaming locomotive pulling up looked much taller from where Steve now stood than it had when he’d been glancing at its approach from afar. As tall as two of him, it came to a rest with a chest-rattling grinding of its horse-sized wheels.

Steve had the strangest feeling that there was something he had forgotten, which only strengthened when the train took off, pistons hissing, from the platform. He stared at it, reflecting back to a time when a pile of plain coffins filled with reinterred bodies was a normal sight under its roof, until the windows became obscured with steam.

Directly opposite him, Natasha, dressed as a man, red hair tied in a knot under her cowboy hat, leaned closer.

“You know he’s got a record, right?” she said.

“Who?” asked Steve, looking around the car, expecting to find someone other than the six of them.

“Scott,” answered Natasha quietly, surprising Steve. “Two years in the federal house. For theft.”

Steve’s insides twisted in displeasure. “What did he steal?”

“Just a couple gold pieces from an outlaw, who had stolen them from an old black man,” she said, wearing an impressed smile. “He gave them back.”

“That’s not a theft.”

“When he rode off with the outlaw’s horse, it was. The man set the marshals after Scott.”

“Huh,” said Steve, turning to watch Scott, seated on the right side of the car, in the light of this new information. Funny enough, he looked exactly the same. Next to Scott, Clint raised his spurred boot to push against the opposing seat; catching Steve’s eye, he then lifted the other from the carpeted floor to drape over his left.

“Get you feet off the seat, we know where they’ve been,” he told Clint.

The spurs jingled as Clint, rather petulantly, set his boots back down, slouching low on his seat. Closing his weary eyes Steve allowed the relief of their progress to overcome him for a moment, tugging his hat lower and laid his head against the nook between the seat and the wall, and within the hour, the sloping ridge between Lodgepole and Crow Creek turned into a towering fortress in his dreams; jet black and forbidding.

He was striding down a hall with purpose, walking to the door at the very end of the passage … he peeked through a slit of a window into the cell-like room … metal shavings, machine parts, an occupied bed…

A thin figure stirred on it and rolled its head onto other shoulder … eyes opening in a skull of a face, and then it smiled.

“Honey,” it said in the voice on Tony.

As the horror of the discovery crept down his spine like scuttling ants, his mind registered sounds of the real world: a shuffle of fabric next to him as someone leaned past him to the window.

“Let me guess,” floated in Sam’s concerned voice, “we’re heading toward the swirling white hell in the west?”

The dream pulled Steve back in, suddenly razor sharp again; only a door laid between him and Tony, which Steve broke open … behind it, Tony, for the man was undoubtedly him, gazed up at him sadly.

“You’ve changed,” he said weakly.

“I know.”

“You are late.”

Tony was trembling now.

_He was late … he was so, so late…_

Again, for just a moment, the line between dream and reality became blurred, pulling Steve back to where he sat, surrounded by Sam, Bucky and Natasha, who were listening to Scott talk.

“Maybe it will pass?” he was saying.

The voices, although not more than couple feet apart, were coming as though through a great distance; fragmented visons were already flooding his exhausted mind that was determined to pull him under again—

… he was walking to the bed now, heard his boots creak…

“I’m sorry I’m not the man I once was,” said Steve, crouching by the bedside. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“It’s t-too late. It’s not enough. What—what took you so lo-long—?”

Tony gasped, body seizing… just as Steve’s arms closed around him, blood bubbled from within a hole in his chest, right were the scarring used to be … it spread wide while Steve, helplessly, tried to put pressure upon the wound…

“No, _no!_ Tony, don’t leave me again— _please!”_

But it was for naught. Tony went limp against him, and all Steve was good for, was placing his hand against the matted hair at Tony’s neck and helping the lolling head gently down onto the bed, from where Tony’s glassy brown eyes looked up to the ceiling they could not see…

Steve’s own eyes flew open as he was shaken awake by a sound; on his right, Clint had broken open his rifle and was reloading it. The trembles of a dying body turned into the vibration of the speeding train. Outside the window, landscapes changed rapidly, and smoke flied past in wisps as the engine thundered; Steve could see the chimney whenever the tracks bent to the left.

A dark-booted leg kicked his.

“Bad dreams?” said Bucky, frowning at him from the other side of the face-to-face arranged seating.

Steve hastily wiped a wet cheek against the carriage’s wall and straightened. The window was blurred where his heavy breathing had fogged the glass.

“Where are we?” he asked, clearing his throat.

“Just passed Carson City,” said Bucky, and sure enough, at that moment the train hit an upward slope and the chugging of the engine grew louder while the grinding slowed.

“Do you think we’ll be on time?” Steve asked.

“I know we will,” said Bucky bracingly. “You know why? Because I bet he’s giving Stane hell. Besides you, he’s the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”

They were over the root of the mountains, they had passed the first summit through a tunnel; Steve could see several more clouded peaks up front as they zigzagged westward to find the smoothest ascent, so slowly that as the daylight began to fail, Steve felt anxiety starting to scrawl upon his skin like a horde of bugs.

To his horror, after climbing from a long sunlit stretch into third misty peak, the train slowed to a jerky crawl and stopped completely with a whining lurch. Around the compartment people craned their becks to look around. Moments later, a man came from another cart through the door at the front. Straining their ears, they caught a word here and there.

A snow shed had failed and released its fresh, snowy burden above a summit tunnel that had collapsed under the weight, and their only way through the mountain range was now buried under a several dozen feet of snow.

“Talk about devil’s luck,” cursed Bucky; it would be a while before the steam powered ploughs reached the summit. Too late, thought Steve, if they wanted to reach the San Francisco in time. How much time would elapse until they reached the city? How much longer would Tony be able to resist Stane? All Steve knew for sure was that Tony had never done what people wanted, and he was not sure if that would be in his favor or against in this case, making Steve all the more anxious to speed over the peaks on foot in he needed to. All his faith had been on the iron horse beneath him, still trembling idly.

“This train is going back to Carson City,” said the man as he passed them, changing carts.

As the door hissed open, letting in a gust on cold air, they exchanged looks.

If they were too late…

_He’s still alive, he’s still fighting, I know it…_

If Stane decided Tony was not going to crack…

_He won’t…_

“Should we wait for another train?” suggested Scott as though this was all a rather interesting day trip; Steve wished he would show a little more investment. There were bigger things at stake than a dame.

“To hell with waiting,” growled Clint, leaning towards them over the thin armrest. “I say we take it from here by foot if we have to.”

“Clint’s right,” said Steve, springing up from his seat. “Our stop’s here.”

It took them a little over fifteen minutes to get off the train with their possessions; at last, beaten by wind that whipped their watering eyes, they managed to traipse over to the boxcar to cinch their gear back onto the saddles. Their horses slipped in the straw-littered planking as they walked them outside, where Steve’s eyes, still puffy, took a moment to acclimate. Then, their boots knee-deep in the crunching snowbanks, they heaved the door shut and made their way onwards over the tunnel on foot.

It was just before dusk that they reached a cabin by the tracks and settled for the night, and by then their shoulders and hat brims were wet with fresh snow.

***

The morning of the day after dawned clear. Steve observed this with mild pleasure through the cabin’s window and blew aside a strand of hair which had, out of neglect, grown long enough to dangle over his eyes in blond wisps. Through the thick glass, he could see what felt like the whole of West Coast spreading along the central valley. If he squinted, he imagined he could all the way to San Francisco—but that was merely a fantasy. Not even Clint’s eyes could have seen that far.

His wistful musings were interrupted by Scott, who had crept to the window as well.

“Oh, man. Cassie’s never gonna believe this,” he said, looking at the land spreading green so far that the horizon was tinted blue. It was easy to imagine, then, how it once could have seemed like the edge of the world.

“Will you and your purse be joining us for breakfast?” Sam called from the fireplace.

A cookfire burned there. Two coffeepots warmed leaning against the inside of the fire’s piled-stone perimeter. A skillet held bacon.

“Yeah, but watch what you put in your mouth,” Bucky said on the opposite side of it. “In the morning, spiders come out of hiding to warm up.”

Sam blinked at Bucky until, quite suddenly, his bemused expression cleared. “Oh, yes. Big spiders.” He said conversationally, “Remember that saucer-sized wolf spider we had to wrestle out of our kettle last May?”

“Spiders?” repeated Scott, whose voice had risen an octave. He gave a skittish jump when Steve closed the shutters.

“They’re just pulling your leg,” Steve offered at his imploring look, but couldn’t help adding, as he brushed past him to get his portion of beans: “It was dinner plate-sized.”

They packed up their dishes and quilts after breakfast and moved down the mountainside in slippery snow, which turned to slush by the time the sun climbed over the peaks behind their back. It pursued them to the wooded valley, and persisted all day, through ridges and plains. They rode overnight. It was as though a flame had been lit inside them, urging them to catch lost time. And the fiercer the wish to find Tony burned inside Steve, the less joyful the undisguised circuit of the sun made him.

On the evening of day three, they reached the train stuck on the other side of the summit; it had stayed to linger around a tiny station sixty miles off Sacramento. Here, they persuaded the engine driver to turn back to San Francisco Bay, and from there, they took a ferry from Oakland Pier to the city itself. The shortest way to the factory took them through the very heart of San Francisco, where they were swept along by the rush of horse-drawn carriages and carts.

“I can’t believe it,” said Bucky as they had to slow to a walk, hooves clattering. “Even their _horses_ look cleaner.”

Down the streets and up the streets they went, over the tracks of a cable car (which Bucky eyed hungrily), and finally emerged to a wet-soiled side road. The further they rode, the less imposing the stucco-fronted town houses became, until finally, they could see smoke rising behind a line of rather weather-worn buildings.

They squeezed through an alley breaking the line, and for a moment they could see nothing but dark walls and the strip of light they were heading towards. It grew as they got closer until, at last, a view of the bay lined with massive factories spread before their eyes that had widened in awe.

They were standing at the top of a hill sloping steeply down to the water. The sky got bluer further at the sea that glittered in the daylight, occasionally disrupted by a ferry plying the waters. In the middle of the bay stood a large island.

“Right, I think our first move should be hiring a guide,” Scott said, eyes round.

Bucky snorted rather unattractively. “You’ve obviously never been to the East Coast. It’s even _bigger.”_

“No kidding…? Man, that must be noisy.”

“There’s less when it’s foggy,” said Natasha.

“Wait, _this_ is clear?”

A ferry’s horn sounded heavily out in the shallower water, but they couldn’t see its source. Noon had turned to afternoon when they descended the hill.

All at once, Stark Industries appeared—not as a structure seen from far, but a mammoth, emerging behind another factory. It’s vast Victorian red-brick façade covered almost two city blocks on its own. Above this, in the immensity of the towering structure, it was all ambition, competition, domination, even lust—for size, power and, always, money.

“So, how do we tell apart a spy?” asked Sam as they neared the open iron gates of a side entrance. “I mean, isn’t blending in the whole point?”

“If Fury received the wire of our delay in time, he should be waiting us here,” spoke Steve, scanning the crowd behind the gates.

When they passed through them into a sort of entry yard, their eyes fell upon queues formed in front of three arches housing as many entrances to the factory. They had barely dismounted and joined the nearest one when Steve observed a superior checking his watch by the grilles at the front. Feeling eyes on his person, he lifted his gaze; it glittered with recognition.

Steve’s heart skipped a beat.

“We’ve got company,” he warned.

The blond man was now striding towards them. His countenance was authoritative, neat, professional, and quite solid for a man of sixty-odd years. His suit was of expensive charcoal-grey cloth paired with a white bow tie. The workers around them fell silent at the sight of him, eyes downcast.

“Captain Rogers,” the man started once he reached them.

Steve didn’t ask him how the man knew his name.

“Yes,” Steve confirmed. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name, sir.”

“Pierce. Alexander Pierce. It’s an honor to assist you,” the man introduced himself.

Steve shook the offered hand. Despite the laugh lines etched onto the man’s face, his eyes were cold. All Steve’s speculation was soon forgotten, though, as Pierce addressed Steve’s group—finally relenting his unfaltering gaze on Steve—and the moment he did so the scowl vanished, and he took in the men and a disguised woman with what looked like amusement.

“How was your trip, gentlemen?” Pierce inquired, as he started to lead them past the queues. “Not too wearisome?”

“Pleasant, but not without hitches,” Steve said.

“Did the crossing take long?”

“A week.”

“Good, good,” Pierce returned, distractedly, for he was fishing a big set of keys from inside his double-breasted jacket. He got them into the building through another iron gate. When the grille clattered shut behind them, Pierce took off at a brisk pace.

Halfway along the first corridor they emerged into a wide, open space where a hundred women stood in rows by several room-length tables full of Tony-like littering of metal scraps. There was a system to it, though: in unison, the women placed each piece in stacks with similar shapes or color. But soon they had walked further, and the hypnotizing scene was left behind.

“Upstairs,” Pierce directed curtly.

They had just taken the first steps up the stairs at the end of the corridor when Pierce stopped them.

“I can’t afford all six of you, Captain. And not one gun. I’m taking you to upstairs myself, and that’s more than enough risk for me.”

“We should stick together,” Steve began, but showed his unholstered hips under his jacket, nonetheless. Pierce was shaking his head.

“I only want the men whose discretion I can count on.” Pierces eyes strayed to someone behind Steve. “Half of you need to stand on guard for Stane and slow him down by any means necessary.”

Steve shared worried glances with everyone.

“I want your word they will be safe here,” he insisted.

“Yes, yes. Them and a hundred starved women and children … _insurmountable_ ,” Pierce mocked, and the coldness seeped back into his eyes. “Stane’s biggest weapon is Stark, is he not? If we get him off Stane’s hands, he loses his main bargaining tool, should the situation turn sour. I’ll take no more than three of you directly to where Tony Stark is kept.”

Tony. This was the magic word. Steve forgot where he was and what he was doing there: he even forgot he wasn’t alone. He stepped closer to Pierce, and demanded, “Take me to him.”

“Choose your two partners wisely—unless you want to go alone?”

Steve glanced behind him, meeting the apprehensive faces of his group. “Nat, Bucky, with me. Clint, Sam, stay behind with Scott.”

Clint grumbled but, in the end, gave away.

“Now,” Pierce said, “whoever is in charge, I have two conditions. Nothing is to be touched. Nothing. And you must not leave this spot right here until I return for you. Understood?”

“Sam?” Steve said with meaningful nod towards Clint.

“All over it, Cap.”

Pierce nodded, satisfied, and started to lead the now-trio to Tony.

Relief pulsed through Steve’s body. As they passed gleaming wooden door after wooden door, each bearing a small plaque with a name, an occupation or its purpose upon it, the magnitude of the building compared to his initial, lone-gunslinger plan started to catch up on him. Steve was loath to admit, but Bucky had been right—he wouldn’t have gotten past the lobby, _if_ he had found that to start with.

Soon, in front of a nameless plaque, Pierce stopped and took out his keys again. Then the door swung open, and Steve’s relief vanished: only one man was in the unfurnished room, standing as though anticipating their arrival, and in the illumination of the sole window, you could just make out the scar that stretched from his brow to his hairline.

“I’ve got half of them, Rumlow” said Pierce as he locked the five of them in the room and pulled a gun on them.

***

At the sight of the weapon, Steve sensed Natasha shift next to him and stepped pointedly between her and the men.

The other man, Rumlow, couldn’t have been mistaken for a miner now: his brutish face was at odds dressed in a gentleman’s garb, though he had dispensed with the scarf, along with his scowl. In its place, was now a confident grin as he looked upon his captures.

“All right, get your backs up against that wall,” said Pierce, indicating with his barrel which wall he meant. “Keep your mouths shut and do what I tell you. Anybody that moves, gets a bullet. There’s no grey area. Anything weird, you’re dead.”

Steve complied and the others follow, shooting glances at Steve, who heard a scuffle over by the door and knew that Bucky had been pushed to the wall by force.

“Where’s Sitwell?” inquired Pierce from Rumlow, keeping his eyes and pistol trained on them.

“Sitwell transferred,” said Rumlow, who straightened his stiff waistcoat. “I got promoted.”

“I see,” Piece said flatly. “It suits you.”

“Like it? See, there was this fella who I had a slight disagreement with—”

“Have you got the stuff?”

“Of course, I’ve got everything.”

Pierce looked over his shoulder; the two men stared at each other.

“Would you be so good,” Pierce gritted, “as to tie them up? I need to fetch the other three.”

Now, both their attention turned to their captives. They seemed to be assessing them all, one by one. For a moment, nothing happened.

“Well?” Pierce pressed.

With a lurch, Rumlow took a step towards.

“No hard feelings, sonny,” he said with easy confidence to Natasha, reaching a hand towards her. “It’s nothing personal—”

But the moment he touched her, Natasha swung herself at him. Suspended by her thighs on his shoulders, she twisted in the air and brought Rumlow down with a satisfying thud. Quicker than a blink, she snatched his gun and notched it expertly, arms braced on her kneeling leg.

With a speed surprising for a man of his age, Pierce broke for the door, but he was impeded by his own lock; by the time his key touched it, Steve had pulled a hidden gun from under his waistband. He took one large step toward the frantic man and brought the butt end of his six-shooter down on his head.

Pierce let out a cry and collapsed to the floor.

“You there, bind him up,” Bucky addressed Rumlow. “Yes, you. Move it.”

A rather heavily astonished Rumlow, who was gasping for breath on the floor, was slow to respond. At last, his fumbling fingers withdrew a coil of thin rope from his jacket pocket, which he used to tie Pierce’s feet, and then arms. And by their instructions, linked those knots together so that he rope was pulled the taut behind Pierce’s back.

While the man was still bend over, Steve twisted Rumlow’s head by the grip he took of his nose and pressed his gun to his head.

“Talk,” Steve ordered.

“S-Stane keeps a hostage here,” Rumlow told swiftly. “Tony Stark is his name, the true heir to this company. He’s supposed to be dead.”

Steve tightened his grip. “We know. Is Stane aware of our presence?”

No answer. Steve gave the man a none too gentle shake.

“N-no,” rasped Rumlow at length. “We were supposed to—were to—wait, that’s a _lady_ under there?”

Natasha had just bend to pick up her hat that had fallen during her flip. The motion exposed the large bun of hair tied up with a ribbon.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” said Bucky and brought his fist upon Rumlow’s head, whose eyes rolled back and went limp.

Steve, having been left to bear all his weight, raised his brows as he let go of Rumlow, who fell to the floor with a thump.

“What?” said Bucky, unapologetic. “There was nothing he could have told us, bloody sniveling renegade. They kept this from Stane so they could boost their own position by serving us on a tray. He deserved nothing less after taking Tony.”

“Maybe,” said Steve, but not with much faith, because he could feel a rising rush on anger towards Stane. It was Stane, Steve thought, staring down at the unconscious men, it all came back to Stane … he was the one who orchestrated all this, who had ruined their town’s economy…

“Well,” Bucky said, “on the upside, we are in _and_ —we’ve got keys.” He had bent down to retrieve them from under Pierce’s bowed form. “Where do we start looking for Tony? Steve?”

Steve had never hated a man more than as he stood there, having been double-crossed, looking upon the men who had been so taken by Stane, they had abandoned the life they knew. How could such a man create so much loyalty? For one teetering second, Steve couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Part of him had wished to allow them to be held captive, if only to get a few minutes with Stane. Steve would have been very happy indeed to get his hands on him … and why couldn’t he?

“Steve?” Bucky repeated, now with an edge, and Steve shook himself out of it.

“We can’t punch our way out of this,” he said, reality closing upon him. “Not now when we’ve lost the element of surprise.”

“Recon, you mean? said Bucky, approvingly. “Stane’s office must be up here. I say we push on.”

“I don’t like our odds,” Natasha muttered.

“Well, I don’t know how to break this to you,” said Bucky, “but I think we _might_ get noticed if the three of us backtracked to get the others without that hoodwinking little scab.”

Natasha angled herself fully towards Bucky now, eyes blazing.

“And if he’s in there? Gonna talk him into handing Tony over to us?”

“It’s worth a look,” Steve said, stopping the bickering.

This idea, however, hit a hitch sooner than they would have liked: the door with gilded details at the end of the corridor outside did not budge.

“Damn! He’s paranoid,” Natasha muttered.

“With a face like Pierce’s?” said Bucky, a corner of his lips twitching, “I wouldn’t have trusted him with a copy, either.”

Steve looked back at the empty passage spreading behind them, then to the door. Bucky seemed to latch onto his thoughts and tugged Natasha close to the wall as Steve took a couple steps away from the door and brought his body forward. The frame groaned; the latch had sprung loose of its bent cavity and Steve pried it open further by hand, the other side of which revealed to be a lavish, mahogany-paneled room.

Steve felt like he had stepped back in time. The offices of the Congress members who gave him his Medal of Honor had looked like a copy of this: from the blood-red wallpaper and dark leather armchairs around the unlit fireplace down to the shelves containing more than two hundred volumes and a bust of a man atop a jade-green marble pedestal. The heavy desk covered in balls of winkled paper, however, was new.

Bucky whistled, and wandered to it. “Someone’s unhappy.” He picked up one and straightened it, “’Progress stalled … cannot deliver … blah, blah … will not recur…’” Bucky balled the letter back and sounded impressed as he continued, “Huh, never heard of Tony being stalled in anything. Sounds like your boy is fighting back, Steve.”

“Tell me I’m not the only one getting the creeps,” said Natasha from where she was studying the shelves full of books and files at the right corner of the room.

“You aren’t the only one,” Steve told her, walking to the windows at the left, mind swimming with the implications ‘will not recur’ held.

Tony must have known they would come to save him…and they had wasted so much time… For how long had he had to buy time? How long had he had to pretend to be stalled by something and what had it cost him? Had he worried Steve would never come?

Catching sight of his forlorn reflection, Steve made to turn away from the glass but froze, his heart leaping. Right across the courtyard Stane’s office was facing, stood the furthest wing of the factory. Its chimneys spewed smoke, there were lights on, yet, as Steve continued his silent observing, no one went in or out. There should have been hundreds of workers in a hall of that size. Surely one of them had to leave or return some time…

“Stane certainly keeps an eye on everything that goes on,” Bucky observed, not favorably, from the side of the shelving of patent drawings and folders. “Sector one … four … nine. Up to twenty! We’re going to be here for ages.”

“Or not,” said Steve, and gazed at them. He felt like an answer was dangling right in front of his eyes, tantalizingly close. “That’s exactly what he does.”

He strode for the mantelpiece, where a pair of binoculars leaned against its marble façade, and through it, took a closer look of the opposing wing. Natasha snapped closed a folder; when she found its proper place, she shoved it in, and turned her shining face to Steve.

“Right under his nose,” she finished for him.

Steve thumbed the settings to focus the lenses as far as possible in an effort to catch sight of the number painted on the bricks two-hundred-odd yards from them.

“Sector sixteen,” he read out, finally letting himself meet Natasha’s level of excitement.

“The map said it’s accessible thought the yard—”

“—which we can’t risk, not with many windows overlooking—”

“—which means the only way is through basement—”

“—and we can only get there through the busiest, biggest hall of the building … how?”

“We’ll have to try and blend in,” Steve suggested. “What do you think, Buck? Bucky?”

Steve looked around. For one bewildered moment he thought Bucky had already left the room, and then he found him, sitting casually atop Stane’s messy desk, passing a brass paper weight from hand to hand, throwing it higher and higher.

“Hmm?” he said vaguely, and at raising his gaze, continued airily, “Oh, no, don’t stop your brainstorm for my sake.”

Steve stepped away from Natasha and put his arms to his hips. “No one stopped you from joining,” he said.

“Punk,” Bucky fired back but crossed the carpet to flung one arm over Steve’s shoulders.

“Jerk,” said Steve and squeezed his bicep.

Natasha, on the other hand, was looking from one man to another in apparent contempt. “Men,” she scoffed. _“Beati pauperes spiritu,”_

“Do you know what that means, too?” Bucky asked Steve, who shrugged.

In the end, they left to take their chance at the large hall, trusting the amount of people to turn them invisible. Steve’s mind grappled with the possibilities as they crept back down: they still had the keys which guaranteed that further violation of property could be minimalized. Of course, they did not know whether Pierce was sufficiently important to own keys to Sector 16, and even if he did, the broken door of Stane’s room might trigger a search before they were clear of the factory.

If this happened, they had no other choice: the moment anyone entered the corridor and saw the breach, an alarm would sound out. And Tony could be moved to someplace else…

Lost in thought, Steve had just enough time to move into the shadows of a recess when he heard several approaching footsteps. Hidden, hands splayed in a warning not to move, they listened to the footfalls closing in. If they had already been found, Steve did not want to end up regretting his decision of choosing Natasha’s unobtrusiveness over teamwork.

The voices became louder, but the echoing halls made their speech impossible to follow. Steve counted that the three owners of the footsteps were just about level with them now, and tucked his hand closer to his chest in preparation, and—the footsteps, miraculously, unbelievably, passed their covert, with very familiar gaits…

“Sam!” hissed Steve. “Clint, Scott.”

They twirled around.

“Steve!” Sam said in great relief.

“What,” asked Bucky, gaping at the others, “are you three wearing?”

“Our tickets around this factory,” told Clint, shimmying his hips inside the leather apron and worn jeans. “Like it?”

Steve threw a look at Sam.

“Don’t look at me,” he said, shrugging. “He got impatient.”

“ _We_ got you extra,” put in Scott, who indeed pulled three extra aprons from his bag, which Steve, Bucky and Natasha started to put on quickly on top of their clothes.

“We’d better hurry,” Sam said, “they’re starting to realize something’s not right—something about a Rumlow being late to a meeting,” Sam said, fixing a knowing glance at Bucky and Steve. “Where’s our suited friend?”

“Later,” said Steve, tying his apron in a tight knot. “How long have we got?”

“An hour, perhaps. Depends on what kind of mess you three left behind.”

“Then we’d better make it count,” Steve said, grimly. “Good thing we know where to go.”

They descended into the entry where it all had started, joined the stream of people moving down the opposite corridor, looking around as surreptitiously as possible. But even the map had lied about the enormity of the premises. The hallways seemed to continue forever. They passed through a fire door which opened to a large, high-ceilinged hall that spread above and under them; they had reached Sector 10. A wave of metal-scented heat hit them in the face while the workers continued down a metal staircase to the floor where massive cogwheels turned; and further along, furnaces lined the walls and men were pouring molten metal into ladles.

A large clock chimed, seen at the far end of the hall, counting the hours worked.

With no other choice but to head down themselves, they descended the stairs. On the floor level, the noise of the steam engine-run cogs became almost unbearable and cut down their communication to nothing but hand signals. They weaved through rows of steel pipe columns as thick one’s thigh holding up the walkways half a story higher.

It was up there, once they had found their way to the middle of the room, at Clint’s outstretched forefinger and middle finger, that they found the owner himself.

_Obadiah Stane._

The man lived up to his letter, seeming large and commanding in his bowler hat and broad-collared coat as he prowled along the passage like a caged wild cat, sucking on a fat cigar. A sudden turn obstructed him from Steve’s visual by another walkway, and Steve could not see what was going on above him. He tilted his head back, trying to see…

And distantly, somewhere beyond the boom of the machinery, echoed the deep, bass sound of an explosion.

With a delay, the ground under them gave an almighty lurch—all around them people were thrown off their balance—the metal columns rattling long after the sound stopped resonating off the walls.

The floor broke into chaos.

The scampering workers sucked them along like a tidal wave—and suddenly, many hands grabbed each other, and maneuvered one another into safety behind a four-thousand-pound cog. Steve looked up, expecting to see sagged walkways, but there was nothing there but the solid, Stane-less structure.

Breathing hard and fast, they looked around them. The hall was quickly vacating itself (and not least because of the scorching molten metal spill spreading over the floor) and around Steve, the others, too, were debating the hazard of more explosions in a very much flammable factory. Steve turned to the person next to him and asked a question.

Scott did not hear him over the still-going hum; the cogs were still turning.

Somewhere behind Scott, a hand raised and waved energetically through the air. Quickly translating the message, Steve tugged an oblivious Scott with him as the six of them ran for the end of the hall around the spillage, following the puckered tracks of a factory wagon to a storeroom where they saw a dreadful scene: the dark passage had led them to room filled with rows upon rows of canons, stockpiled and ready for delivery.

Bucky jogged to a nearest pile of wooden boxes and tore its lid off. From inside, he lifted a rifle that had a strange shape to its barrel, which was very short and awkward-looking, given the black second handle in front of the trigger. Its function was revealed, though, once Bucky tried to take it off. It was full of ammunition.

“Ever used one of those?” Sam asked Steve, looking ill.

“Nope.”

“How different can it be, right?” said Bucky and cocked it with one fluid motion.

Down a set of stairs, they came to a hot, low-ceilinged engine room, where coal was being burned to keep the engines running. Just the heat had them abandon their aprons at the entry. The cogs of the hall above had been nothing compared to this: the great hum of machines was so loud they could feel it churn inside their chests like a heartbeat.

It was also full of men.

The reason for this, as it was absurd to imagine they had not felt the explosion, became apparent after remembering the map: this was the only route to Sector 16 from Sector 10.

Stane had passed through.

Steve saw similar realizations cross the faces of his friends. It did not promise anything good about the origin of the explosion.

They pressed on. If the men did see them, catching movement while wiping their stained foreheads on their sleeve, they turned their heads away. The room narrowed into a corridor and the noise quieted with each step added between, until they ran into a yellow, heavy-duty door, which had a very familiar name … it was the entrance to Sector 16.

Optimistically, Sam tried to pry open the door. It did not budge. “Locked!” he cursed.

“Could we use a ram?” asked Bucky, looking around for something big and heavy.

“You expect to bust your way through just like that?” asked Nat, sounding amused.

“I could shoot it,” offered Clint at her side. “This place has too many goddamn doors. It will be therapeutic.”

“That’s four inches of steel,” she said. “If your shot ricochets in this passage…”

Clint spun his rifle once, twice, thrice between his fingers. “I never miss.”

“We know that,” said Sam, “but I would not recommend—”

“Oh, so we should just try our hand at prying it open again in case it’s changed its mind—”

Meanwhile, Scott had taken a hammer and a chisel out of his satchel, placed the end of the latter into the hole of the lock and struck. The following rattle of loose machine parts was hardly heard overt the sniping, which ceased only after the door creaked open before their stupefied faces.

“After you?” said Scott, would-be casually.

Finally Sam gathered himself together and spoke, “Okay, _what_ just happened?”

But Steve had already stepped inside.

Here, it was suddenly ominously quiet. Bucky and Scott, following close to his heels, froze in their tracks in awe. They were in a cavernous glass-ceilinged hall, six-hundred and fifty feet long and a hundred feet high, with massive gas-fueled chandeliers running the entire length of its pitched ceiling. While the setting was an impressive feat of engineering, the cause of the sudden stop was even more incredible: rising in the middle of the wide, wide space was a product of the art of war. It was made of wood, fabric and wires, armed with four guns, and, strapped on the front of it, was a propeller. The whole machine looked like something out of Jules Verne’s books.

“What—what is _that?”_

Steve, who had never heard Clint stutter, found a fear surfacing in himself—of power-rushed men, the great rumble of war and fields of bodies.

“Fury was right,” Bucky said, “it _does_ make the Balloon Corps look like men with toys.”

“Does it really fly?” asked Clint, looking grave.

“It flies,” said Steve, having gathered who the designer of it must be.

“If I’m right,” said Natasha from under the belly of the plane, “the guns are synchronized with the rotation of the propeller. This will change war. For good.”

Her face was as pale as her voice was grave.

“It looks ready,” said Clint. “What’s it doing in here?”

His question was answered, not by them but by shouting coming from behind a stack of crates. They all fell silent, crouching down behind the visual barrier.

Something crashed as though kicked in anger.

“I simply do not understand this Luddite attitude of yours,” said a booming voice. “Didn’t I tell you, boy … didn’t I tell you the border wants results _now_. Not once you’re done blowing up your progress.”

Next, something worse carried to them: a giggle. It was the first time Steve had heard the voice in months; he had almost forgotten how inopportune it can be.

“Think it’s funny, do you?”

“Can you not rip my arm?” It was definitely Tony; Steve’s stomach registered a violent swoop. “You need it more than I do.”

There was a slap and a muffled moan.

“Don’t play with me,” said the second voice loudly, echoing down to their cover. “If the machine is not ready by midnight, if this is another game, you will find yourself explaining why to the business end of a less … _orthodox_ weapon of my own design.”

The end of the argument was accompanied by the bang of a heavy door.

Gradually, they moved from behind the stacks. Steve glanced up into the ceiling where the foggy sky was darkening. Oddly, one of the glass panels there was broken and before he had time to send a warning, its remains crunched under Scott’s feet. They froze; the hall became deathly quiet.

Then, standing further in the hall, they found him.

The satchel slipped from Scott’s hands. Forked sticks and files spread out around his old, worn boots, clattering until they stilled; a hammer broke upon impact and its detached head rolled all the way to Tony’s feet.

He stood near the doors they had seen from Stane’s office, clad in a greased undershirt and breeches. His facial hair was ungroomed. There was a greenish bruise on his left cheek, and a fresh, red flush rising across his right. He was not bound in any visible way.

 _“Tony,”_ Steve breathed.

Tony, however, looked on the familiar faces of his friends not with recognition and relief but with a kind of growing horror, as if they were kidnappers or murderers; Steve wished he had gotten rid of the beard.

“Tony, it’s us,” Steve said, and took careful steps toward him. “We’ve come to save you. You’re going to be fine. You’re safe.”

Tony’s eyes darted, fast as birds, over Steve’s features. “Steve?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” Steve let out a small, relieved laugh as he closed the distance, and enveloped Tony into a strong hug. Tony stiffened but did not draw back. “It’s Steve. Your Steve.”

He cradled Tony’s face in his hands, feeling the familiar prickling of facial hair under his thumbs as he moved them over his face, then down his arms, across his chest. Here, his hands met something hard, cold and unforgiving; was he chained after all?

“Man,” said Sam from somewhere behind him, “give him some space to breathe. He’s looking pretty overwhelmed.”

Indeed, when Steve pulled back, there still was a visible lack of relief on Tony’s face, although a new, healthier flush had worked its way under the bruises on his cheeks and—

But it was as though a breeze had snuffed all the figurative candles: all Steve’s relief, all his hope and happiness were extinguished at a stroke, and he stood alone in the darkness as the glorious flush of reunion broke.

He was not anyone’s Steve.

Steve took several embarrassed steps back from Tony, feeling his face heat up. There were now two very awkward men facing each other.

“Steve,” said Tony again, having recovered first. “What the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

“You didn’t build your fence,” said Steve, hackles risen.

Tony let out a laugh that was somewhat unhinged. “Like that would keep you out. I had a plan and you—you know what, you lack all finesse. Should’ve known you’d just bust your way here singing _Stars and Stripes Forever.”_

“Sorry,” said Steve, not knowing what else to say. In answer, Tony made a nose on contempt; an expelling of air that vibrated his lips rather vulgarly.

“Sorry? Hey, see, this is progress. I could go as far as say you’ve ceased exercising blindness to everything but your own judgement.”

“Okay?” Steve said, feeling lost.

“Right.”

“Right,” said Sam. “You’ve made your point, everyone’s met each other, and all is well in the world. Now, let’s move this reunion party someplace else—”

At this Tony finally looked away from Steve.

“No, I am _not_ going anywhere.”

“What do you mean?” Steve said hurriedly, having to raise his voice over Clint’s indignant voice going, ‘What, should we hold off until after lunch? The employee benefits must be out of this world.’

“You’re deaf but you’re talking loud,” Tony said snidely. “For your information, violence and engineering are known to be bad bedfellows.”

And wasn’t that, thought Steve, the story of their entire relationship.

“Subtlety seems superfluous when they already know we’re here,” remarked Bucky, who had been silently standing behind Sam so far.

“Even more reason for you to get out. Thank you, bye-bye. When I want to be saved by a colonist, I now know who to call.”

Steve squared his shoulders. “No.”

“Um, yeah.” Tony’s voice was bordering on hysteric heights. “This is not a good time—”

“No, not without you. Tony, these people,” Steve started slowly, “are akin to thieves and murderers. You’re nothing like them—”

His voice died off, for he observed a strange, cold sort of smile about Tony’s face.

“Stane isn’t the only killer around here, Steve,” Tony said, gazing up at him impassively. _“I_ lit the fire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, whoop- yes, I'm alive.
> 
> We're trying to sell a house I inherited some 8 years ago and it requires a bit of TLC before it's ready to be bought by anyone so that's kept me busy enough for these weeks... Should be okay now, so, next update will be on time because it's already been read through for mistakes.
> 
> I was just feeling a bit discouraged by how little hits this has. But all of you who have found this, you have all been so wonderful in your comments. Maybe I just wasn't realistic enough in thinking I might get the same traction as my previous fandom with its 800+ kudos. Well, my fault. I still want this story out, because when I got read it back as I edited the start of this chapter, I started to feel somewhat good about this fic again... idk...
> 
> Anyway,  
> See you on Wednesday/Thursday! xx


	6. Endgame

Steve heard this but didn’t believe in it.

“No, you didn’t,” he said. “You didn’t do that … you can’t have done…”

“Trust me, I did,” said Tony, and his eyes moved to the doors, and Steve knew he was making sure Stane was not yet brought back by the noises. At the same time, Tony took several steps backwards, eyes shuttered.

“Was anyone hurt?” he asked. “From the fire.”

“What,” asked Steve.

He was looking at Tony’s guarded stance. This was a bad joke. It had to be.

“I asked,” said Tony quietly, “if I killed someone.”

_“Killed—?”_

But just then, a key turned in a lock.

Now even further away from Steve, Tony cursed colorfully under his breath as a shiny shoe stepped through the heavy door, then another; Stane only had time to take in the additional guests around Tony, surprise clear on his bearded face, before Tony lifted his left hand as if to expel Obadiah out of the hall…

Steve heard a noise start; slowly, and then all at once; suddenly so unbearable they clapped their hands over their ears—then, once the high pitch had seemingly filled the whole hall, it reached what sounded like a breaking point—and it gave away to a yowling _shooh!_

As if thrown by an invisible force, not unlike a heat mirage above hot ground, Stane went airborne—two hundred pounds of limbs and body were lifted in the air like a kite and got flown sixty feet backwards, along with a heavy industrial table. The clatter of it, Steve could have sworn, caused the floor underneath him quake.

The following silence was so total one could hear the distant sound of constant mechanical throbbing in furious rhythm.

Tony, regaining his balance from the recoil, shook his hand stiffly with a grimace and turned to them.

“We are done here,” he said steely, a gleam of sweat on his brow. “Go home, Steve.”

Steve’s vision blurred and stung. Therefore, the moment the pitch began anew took him by surprise. In just the same fashion it rose to an unbearable peak and then erupted with a tremendous hiss. The doors were blasted open.

The last thing Steve saw of Tony was his parting look before he took off through the open maintenance door. At his leave, Bucky threw up his hands.

“Great. _Fantastic_.” He kicked the fallen table. “What now? We were supposed to find Tony. Now that we did, it turns out he doesn’t want to be saved…”

Steve didn’t hear the rest, for he was staring at the bottom of the industrial table. Its legs had been _bolted_ to the floor, yet it had rolled like tumbleweed in a breeze. There was a faint ringing sensation rising in his ears, and it was not because of the noise.

“—do we take him down or wait for the marshals?” Sam’s voice broke though the buzzing.

“I won’t leave,” said Natasha, arms crossed, “while this factory is still running.”

Bucky was scowling furiously. “We ain’t got a warrant. Stane wasn’t our mission.”

“You mean _your_ mission,” Natasha said.

“We came here as a team. Agreed, we picked up a couple of strays on the way…” Sam ignored Scott’s indignant yelp — “but in case you didn’t know, Nat, that means there can’t be a team inside the team—”

“I’ve hunted down people for money, innocent or otherwise,” murmured Natasha, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “My hands are red from it. If I have to stop the weapons production myself, I will do it with pleasure.”

“Are you aware that this has become a bit of a mania with you?” Clint said and faced Natasha, joining in the argument. “You think you can escape your past by catching one more bad guy.”

“Did you know about this?” asked Steve, who, in turn, faces Clint accusingly.

“Steve, your country needs you,” Natasha said.

Steve made a face. “My mam was Irish.”

“Remind me again why exactly you joined the army,” she answered coldly. “Tony’s still in danger from Stane, and he won’t be safe until Stane’s—”

“Hey, woah, woah,” said Sam, holding a hand in a subduing gesture. “Are you guilt tripping him?”

Natasha twirled around to shoot a deadly glare at him.

“Aren’t you men tired of grouping together _every goddamn time—!”_

“Not when someone’s trying to prompt us into a suicide mission in the middle of the most flammable factory in the world,” said Bucky in a mocking tone.

“The two people capable of running this place are at large,” hissed Natasha poisonously, “so I would be a little more concerned about the future of this country if I were you.”

“Are you calling my h—Tony a threat to the United States of America?” Steve asked, incensed.

“Er, guys?” a voice said loudly over the raising volume of their dispute. _“Guys.”_

“What,” the five of them snapped in harmony.

“Should we be concerned about that,” said Scott, and pointed behind the fallen table.

“Oh shit,” said Clint as he spotted what was wrong.

Steve looked overt the table, too. Where Stane was supposed to be, all but lifelessly sprawled on the cemented floor, was now just a couple pieces of what looked to be a broken pocket watch. As they cursed colorfully, the mindset of leadership was slowly taking hold of Steve.

“Okay,” he said, and at his tone, the rest quieted, “Stane knows we're here. The odds are we'll be riding into heavy fire. Stane’s not going to worry about civilian casualties. Our priority is keeping them out of this.” He looked hard at each of them in turn. “We saw Section 10 empty, by now the rest of the factory as well. We’ll use that for our advantage to get back to our horses, arm ourselves with anything and everything we find on the way. Yes, we are all good at what we do, but in order to win, we need to work as a team, starting now. Do your part. Stay safe. Let’s kill this bastard.”

Nobody noticed their return to the horses; the factory had emptied itself. The six of them rushed quickly though the echoing halls, but by the time they gained the street, Stane had disappeared just as quickly as Tony.

It was easy, once in the shadows of the building, to retrieve their weapons from the pommel bags and from between the folds of their rolled blankets, for the fog had thickened. Steve stared at his own roll, and the army suit from within. Perhaps Stane the kind of man he would rather kill in uniform instead of scrubby jeans … or perhaps the button-spangled front would glint even though the mist … but Steve threw it on anyway, for, after the sweltering heat of the factory, the evening outside felt cold on his skin.

And soon, the six of them hurried towards the maze of uphill housing.

The towering buildings cast shadows on their path, and, whether because of the mist or because of the hard surfaces of their surroundings, sounds echoed eerily as they walked. Steve felt as if he was underwater; after the noisy factory, the air pressed on their ears and buzzed.

After about two hundred yards, they reached a fork. They looked at each other, and divided, again, into threes.

“See you in a minute,” said Steve, who guided his group to left, while the others took right.

Hooves clapped on the street up ahead. Steve kept looking around him, craning his neck to see over Bucky’s head, but their chosen path was deserted. At the crossing, which was empty as well, they reached two possible directions, and took the right. Steve wasn’t sure why, but the lack of people unnerved him. Surely this meant something had scared them off? It felt reassuring to think this _something_ might be Stane, and they were on the right track. Then they heard movement from the street to their left. Steve had his gun aimed at the disturbance before he realized, in the ambient light of the lamps, that his weapon was aimed at Scott and Sam, who looked vexed. Scott was massaging his shoulder.

“Dead end,” said Sam. “Completely blocked—we helped Clint climb up a drainpipe onto a roof.”

He shook his head and at the next possible turn. dived left with Scott on his heels. Keen to cover as much ground as possible, Steve sent Natasha to scout a shady valley right before their street faced a dead end

Left … right … left again. Then, as the path straightened after a curve, they saw—

Two figures were walking slowly ahead. One big and wide, one short and stiffly moving: Stane had caught up to Tony, whose movements were sluggish— _why_ were they so slow? Then, they overheard them.

“You killed my parents,” Tony was hissing hostilely.

Stane stepped closer to tower over him and said, “You hated your father.”

“Did I?” Tony’s voice still held that hysteric note. “I suppose so. I hated both of you, but I won’t forgive you for the murder of my mama.”

Stane stepped even closer. Tony had no way out but to retreat up the sloping street.

“They never made you, Tony,” Stane growled, “not in the way that matters. I did. Let’s walk further.”

Tony did, though whatever had made that noise—whatever was hidden under his shirtsleeves—evidently made his movements clunky and jerky. Supporting himself on the side of a house, then on a lamp, he proceeded uphill while Stane kept up a constant stream of verbal abuse.

“How ironic, Tony. You could have stayed hidden forever. I expected to find you somewhere alone and too proud to ask for help. But you did … you did … you have a weak heart that fell to the charms of a captain. A patriot!” Stane mocked, engaged and unaware said man was glowering at his back, gesturing at Bucky to shadow the two. “And now your little hero has run straight to your rescue. After I’m done with you, I’ll take care of your friends for good.”

Tony’s hold on the next house wavered as he, for the first time, looked back at Stane.

“That’s it,” said Stane, eyeing Tony’s struggle greedily. “Just a little further.”

They had reached the edge of a square. At the curb, Tony stumbled. He staggered sideways into Stane, who pushed him away, back towards the open space; there, the dark outlines of buildings encompassed them. A theater towered above them on the right. Steve could just make out tracks of a cable car cutting across its cobble-stoned center.

“Out in the open?” Tony asked, sounding casual. “You aren’t gonna put one of your lackeys on it like for poor Mr. Ross? You always _did_ have a certain affinity for drama.”

Steve pursed his lips. Silently, he changed position to see them better, crouching into the shadow of the theater.

“You want to talk about theater?” asked Stane.

Tony did not answer. Steve could not see his face: he wondered whether Tony sensed Stane’s plan, was trying to lead them backwards into someplace safe, away from wherever Stane shepherded them.

“Your father’s career was an utter _farce,”_ he said. “Did you know the prototype for Starling was drawn at the back of a napkin while piss-drunk on a charity dinner? No, and you know why? Because I covered it up. The night he refused to aid Confederates … that was when I was most afraid he would bring down the whole company. Good old Howard, a decent person but a poor businessman. Adults are so much harder to manipulate, I had to change for a younger partner—”

Stane moved around: Steve lost sight of him for a while behind the pillars of the theater’s entry as Stane prowled while speaking in a measured tone.

“I was keeping watch on you, Tony. I called on you on the day of his scheduled demise. When I found the house empty, and I realized the fool had taken you with him, I thought I was ruined. But luckily, Howard’s idiocy had not yet run its course. He had sat you on the floor of the carriage where the structure was at its strongest, and you, miraculously, survived. I breathed again.

“It wasn’t easy, guiding you into the things I wanted you to do and away from the things that you truly were interested in. I had to hold you owing me your life over you far too many times for my liking. The border would have been very suspicious if our designs drastically changed. As long as I could chalk it up to the change in leadership, all would be well. And so, in silence, I could groom you into my very best weapon … if only you had not gotten away, this would have been mine sooner…”

Stane, visible again, gestured to what was hidden within Tony’s clothes.

“Is this a toy, too, my boy?” he asked. “How can you look at yourself and deny that this is anything but the most powerful weapon the world has ever seen?”

In the following silence, they circled each other. And for a moment, Steve saw Tony’s face, looking at Stane with hatred that could burn a lesser man, and Steve finally understood what Jarvis had meant by a severely set mouth.

“I have grown rather fond of you,” Stane muttered quietly. “But, alas, if you insist to be selfish, you leave me no other choice.”

Again, Tony did not speak.

“Perhaps you already know what it is? Clever boy such as yourself must have put two and two together.”

They had now come so close to where Steve was hidden by the theater, that he heard Tony’s whisper as he looked up at the lime-stoned face.

“To be or not to be,” he murmured.

“Not to, I’m afraid,” said Stane, cocking his gun.

At this moment, Tony’s eyes met Steve’s, and several things happened at once: Tony seized Stane’s arm, suddenly dexterous, and slew of bullets descended on Steve and Bucky. He saw it, a flicker of an aiming arm, out of the corner of his eye and surprise paralyzed him for a second too long; the first bullet missed him by an inch—then a second gunshot sounded, met by Bucky’s fire; and a man fell forward onto the pavement from his hide behind the pillar of the theater.

This time they had not been taken for granted—the men Stane had set after them knew what to expect, had been warned; in the following close-range shootout, though, the most any of them succeeded were several wild potshots that only served to empty their revolvers.

Gunsmoke billowed thickly in the air when the firing ceased.

“Here’s your chance,” called out a distastefully familiar voice from the dark corner, “to surrender before we have to do things the hard way.”

“Brave words of a man covering behind a corner like it’s your mommy’s skirts,” yelled Bucky.

A curse sounded in the shadows.

“Your sharp tongues haven’t dulled, then?” answered the same voice. “No matter. Let’s spread out!”

Five of the men ran towards them. There were too many of them to shoot during a distance such as this: soon, four had reached Steve and Bucky and bore on them, hard. Without pausing to think further, Steve surrendered into the mindset of war as though meeting an old friend: air flowed into his lungs, his heart throbbed with life, all thought obliterated but for these fundamental signals that told him he himself was not yet dead.

Steve had just run up the theater’s stairs for high ground, when a dark figure hurtled out before his eyes from the intersecting alley.

Natasha had gotten there. She had lost her hat, and her red hair swung loose as she tugged a ribbon free, tied it around a man’s neck and, using this as leverage, kicked off the ground. Two men were laid out on the cobblestones before her legs met the cobble again.

“What kept you?” Steve called out to her.

“Relax, lover boy, you two weren’t the only ones with company,” she quipped back.

Upon these words, two more men, bruised and limping, dragged themselves out of the valley and into the square.

“I had to ask,” sighed Steve, who pushed his hair off his eyes and, when the limping man hurled himself onto the steps, Steve came across with a right cross that tagged him in the jaw.

Lifted off his feet, the man crashed down onto the flight of steps.

Everything was chaos: the screams of the occasional onlooker mixed with the grunts and shouts of the scuffle; Steve jumped over the unconscious forms of men he didn’t stay to identify, someone’s fallen glasses crunched under his boot, and suddenly, a patch of red seeping over the chest of the man he was just about to hit—and Steve, following its trajectory with his astonished gaze, saw a black shape on the rooftop nearby, rifle braced against a hunched shoulder. Clint, thought Steve, with a rush of relief. Panting, he pushed himself away from the shot men, and ran, hard, to the shadows of the next building over, looking out for Tony. Here, he heard something in the street running parallel to him which made him slow down.

“Hey,” shouted Sam’s voice. “Way to go, cowboy!”

And then Steve heard Scott’s voice.

“Thanks!”

There were sounds of several traded shots, nearly drowned by Clint’s fire behind Steve’s back—and then, suddenly, it became silent in the way nature quieted before a storm; and then—nothing could have prepared Steve for this—the air was full of Bucky’s yells. Horrified, Steve backtracked, and dashed over to Bucky, who was kneeling on the ground, face pale and clutching his shoulder. Blood swelled between his fingers and dripped down the back of his hand. Standing over him, sneering at his own work, was Rumlow.

“You!” Steve cried out.

The world slowed to a crawl. Steve felt his muscles suddenly flood with energy, time unspooling around him as he braced his arm in a single, fluid motion and fired. One. Rumlow staggered backwards. Two. He dropped to his knees. Three. Eight men now laid on the ground on their feet. Reality burst back like a cold gust of wind and with it the sound of Sam yelling his name.

Steve turned around—just in time to see a ninth man, a dozen feet away, take a shot at him.

He had the distinct impression of a bullet emerge from the cylinder of the revolver, fly towards his chest … piercing his jacket … he felt as though a fist had hit his middlemost rib. And only then did he hear the shot.

Funny, he thought dazedly, he remembered having a bullet in his body being more painful than this. His legs gave out. He looked down at his chest. There was no blood, but as he had shifted, something had fallen to the ground—

It was the bullet. Now pitifully flattened as though it had hit solid rock instead of cloth and skin; _how?_

“Steve!”

Sound returned like someone had unplugged Steve’s ears.

“I’m all right,” he heard himself say.

 _“Holy—”_ started Scott but was cut off as Sam and Bucky elbowed their way to Steve’s side. Irrationally, Steve thought that this had not helped in making his newest friend less starstruck; his adrenaline released its hold in the form of a hysteric giggle.

“He’s gone into shock!” Sam shouted. “We need a thicker coat.” He squatted in front of Steve. “Steve, can you hear me? Do you feel cold sweat?”

Steve didn’t reply. Instead he felt at his intact chest, gazing past Sam into the rim of the theater’s roof, past which he could see the starless sky. Despite this, Steve thought it had not looked so bright in months. Finally, he looked back at Sam.

“Help me up,” he said, reaching out a hand.

“You need medical attention,” Sam insisted but mechanically offered his hand for support and pulled Steve vertical again.

“For this bruise?” Steve couldn’t help but ask, part of him enjoying the stupefied looks on their faces. “Did we get them all?”

“Yep,” said Bucky, pale but standing upright, “but there’s still the big guy … over there.”

Half across the square, the two men of startlingly different size were caught in a standstill: Stane was too wary of Tony to fire and kept his distance, while Tony had taken the role of the intimidator; their steps bringing them further away from the theater, and nearer the construction site of a Victorian high Gothic church at the opposing side of the square.

“We’ve got this,” said Sam, giving Steve’s shoulder two strong pats. “Go get your boy. We’ll cover your six.”

And Steve stepped out of the shadows for good. He looked over his shoulder one last time as he called, “Stay safe!”; his last glimpse of them being of Clint standing with one boot propped on top of a passed-out man’s rear, Natasha straightening her clothes with a bored expression, and Scott blinking back at him with a slack jaw.

Breaking into a sprint, Steve quickly checked his trusted gun’s chambers—five expended cartridges, one live round—and he leaped over the tracks, meeting no other people on the way; but surely they had heard … let the police come to witness this, Steve thought … anyone … anything…

But—several spaces nearer, the space between them kept closing all the time—Stane’s impatience to fire reached limit. This drove Tony to shoot the weapon off Stane’s hands; it hit the scaffolding and then, without warning, a beam dropped from next to the turret. From there, it rebounded wildly without losing speed going down—upon the approaching men.

Stane never saw the deadly block of steel coming, erratic as its descent was. The beam turned one last time by pure chance so that it came at him dead on like a spear from heaven—

It missed him by a foot; a stroke of undeserved luck for Stane which left none for Tony; the beam sprung on its tip, now heading for him.

It hit. Although blunt-edged, its mass was enough to send Tony crashing down on the ground as the beam performed its last ricochet and succeeded in turning in a way that had it connecting with Tony’s terror-struck face as a final insult.

***

For a second that contained an all eternity, Steve stared, uncomprehending, at the patch of stones where Tony’s body laid.

And then, before Steve’s mind had accepted what he was seeing, before he could feel anything but numb disbelief, Stane had beat him to Tony’s side. He was greedily eyeing the pieces of copper wiring seen though Tony’s shirt which had been torn, gaping open around his scarred chest. Stane, then, kneeled to tug an unseen piece of machinery off Tony’s unmoving body.

Although flat, it rather resembled the bulb on their ceiling: pale, pinkish light glowed within its glass and lit Stane’s sharp features. The triumph on his face chilled Steve to the core.

“No!” Steve shouted as his body unlocked. “Get your hands off him!”

Stane heard him. For a moment, he looked right at Steve. Then he pocketed the bulb inside his vest and returned his attention to Tony.

Provoked, Steve crossed the final distance; Steve had only time to reflect that if he were Tony, he would have had something clever to say before he tackled Stane by his middle, causing both of them to fall hard onto the stones.

Steve twisted his limbs free to grab his gun, just as Stane lunged and picked up his own from below the scaffolding. Observing the barrel pointed at his forehead, Stane looked amused.

“Really?” he asked. “Don’t you know people like you _never_ shoot first.”

Steve was breathing deep; there was a stitch in his side under his bruised chest that felt as though he had a blade between his ribs. Despite this, his arm stayed level as he pulled the hammer slowly back, using its heavy pull for emphasis, until they both heard it notch.

Neither fired. Stalemate.

Stane huffed, “I can do this all day.”

Steve bared his teeth at him and thrust the barrel flush with Stane’s sweaty forehead. He was sure the pressure put on it would leave a red mark, but that would be nothing compared to the ring-shaped burn if he pulled the trigger now…

 _Do it,_ he told himself, blood pounding in his ears, _he deserves it…_

But Steve never did find out if he could have pressed the trigger, for at that moment sound rose from downhill, so large-sounding and steady that that Steve and Stane alike looked around. The air was suddenly full of rhythmic, metallic clicking; behind Steve’s back, a cable car thundered up towards the square. The light of the lamps played at its sides but offered little illumination for the driver to identify the beam laying on the tracks; a scream of brakes pierced the December evening, closely followed by the slow, ominous creak of the grip car listing to the left—until it toppled over, bringing along with it the trailer.

The ground of San Francisco shook anew, drowning the screams of those onboard.

“Heroes are out of fashion, don’t you think,” said Stane as he observed the wreckage with blank and pitiless eyes, equally uncaring of the barrel pointed at him. “In this new age of war, there is no place for the lone gunslinger.”

“Wars have always been the same,” Steve said gruffly. “Only the greed of men has grown.”

As the cries faded, Stane, with a sneer, backed up onto the steps of the church. Both kept their guns targeted on one another, and Steve, who had just survived what should have been a fatal shot, followed. The closer he got, the more astonished and almost fearful Stane became, and the higher he climbed—until his feet ran out of steps and met with the even surface of the landing…

“Say, how many times did you have to shoot to get here?” Stane asked—and grinned. “Colt Dragoon, huh? Second Model, 1848. Your father’s, I presume? I have two myself, in my little … museum.”

Although Steve recognized this as a kind of discourtesy, no part of him reared in anger; he took a measured step forward. Now, six feet from the locked door, Stane’s grip on his gun tightened, knuckles turning white. Slowly, very slowly, Stane put his arm inside his vest, coming to protectively grasp the bulb—and Steve knew Stane would fire soon … sensed the anticipation thicken in the air as Stane coiled like a snake—

But just as Stane’s eyes flashed in the darkness, Steve saw his mouth curl into a grimace; the gun fired, missing Steve by a mile, its sound echoing in the misty night for a long time while, with disbelieving frown Stane brought his hand to his pallid face that slowly contorted with betrayal at the sight of his singed palm.

This was his chance, thought Steve, who wrenched, legs fighting for grip, ribs smarting, Stane’s armed hand up where the second bullet was fired towards the sky; the third was discharged at half-cock. Steve’s grip on the gun was strong; Stane had to lean back with all of his mass to tug it off. And, when Stane finally tugged it free, it was with such tremendous force that the sudden loss of resistance sent him continuing his motion … and he tumbled down six steps. Steve stepped over Stane’s weapon—landed two steps higher—on his way to where Stane had crumbled in a heap; groaning, a string of bloodied spit creating a bridge between him and the step. His hands felt at his waistcoat, increasingly panicked.

Steve realized what he was looking for at the exact same time a voice that had Steve’s heart leaping into his throat rang out.

“Steve, move aside.”

Tony, face bloody and twisted into a grimace that was half-pain, half-venom, was holding the runaway bulb.

 _What was it?_ Steve thought, not for the first time. It had created what looked like neither liquid nor air—if it had any substance at all. Where did it come from? What would it drain?

“You won’t kill me, Tony,” growled Stane, couching and spitting blood between words. “Your heart is too _soft_ for that.”

Steve, who saw that the words were having an effect on Tony, raised a hand to stop him. Tony ignored this. He wiped off blood from his upper lip and opened his shirtfront to slide in the bulb.

“Tony, no,” Steve said firmly. “Don’t do it. Don’t become his instrument.”

Tony stared at him.

“Trust me,” Steve said.

Then, slowly, Tony lowered his hand.

“Bad move,” said Stane and snatched the gun he had been inching toward. He pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Tony slumped against the foot of the stairs, breathing hard. Bitterly, Stane let the gun clatter to the ground. To preserve his dignity, he straightened up laboriously under Steve’s judging eye.

“Obadiah Stane,” said Steve. “you’re hereby under arrest for treason against this country…”

But Obadiah Stane would not go quietly.

“I would love to hear what must be a well-rehearsed speech,” he said and, from his jacket pocket, took out a round object the size of a man’s fist.

At Steve’s feet, Tony stiffened.

“My own design,” Stane said, and it was a mark of the seriousness of the situation that Stane had dropped the insults. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. You see, once rigged, this is going to blow in thirty seconds. You shoot me, I’ll still have time to pull this little cap off. One, small move—” he demonstrated this act “—and what happened in Manhattan will look like a dud in comparison.”

Steve glanced at Tony; he could practically hear his brain whirring as he, unconsciously, was spinning around a necklace.

Stane started to retreat backwards, hand placed meaningfully upon the bomb, but Steve hardly noticed. He had just realized something; he could not believe his eyes. He had thought the jewelry a fashion statement before—but he had been wrong. There was a reason for the gold chain—the ring dangling from it.

There was a hush that had fallen over the square except for the creak of the cable car and several retreating footsteps as Bucky and Sam, who Steve saw as merely dark shapes among the blackness, lead last of the passengers to safety behind the visual protection of the cars. Tony, however, had finally come to a satisfactory conclusion in his head; Steve knew this, for a cold finger had slipped between his boot and his jeans, tapping on the warm, exposed skin it found there.

Thee quick, one long … a pause … one quick, one long again. All this went unbeknownst to Stane, who looked over at them less the further he backed, and the more confidence he gained.

And Steve listened, sense of touch on high alert for every tap, his heart beating fast. His eyes fell on a hydrant an odd hundred feet away; he braced himself, knowing he was using his last bullet, and blew off the valve with a well-placed shot.

Over at the belly of the overturned car, Stane went rigid. Although he was too far to see, the suspicion clouding his eyes was easy to read from his more secured grip on the bomb as his eyes roved over the seemingly unchanged expanse.

What he did not see, however, was the start of a sedate drip, then a trickle that pooled around the metallic stem. Progressively, it grew into a rivulet that spilled from groove to groove, cobble to cobble, all the way down to the car, spreading wet underneath Stane’s feet, firmly planted on the tracks—

The realization that struck Steve with the force of a battering ram was as staggeringly bright as it was relieving. When Steve’s face, breaking into understanding, snapped back to Tony, he found him already looking back.

“Take it,” he mouthed at Steve from the lower steps, and stretched his left hand out. On it was the bulb.

Steve’s arm spasmed from its heat—and he hesitated.

Tony’s warm brown eyes were boring into Steve’s, who met his gaze unflinchingly, concentrating hard on what he might find there, unsaid—

“ _Throw it!”_ hissed Tony franticly, having shot over his shoulder a glance at Stane, who was swaying on the cusp of moving away from where they wanted him.

Steve, who knew his last chance had just been used, pulled back his arm and flung the scalding-hot instrument; it sailed through air, straight, no spin and all too fast, not allowing Steve the luxury to second guess before it reached ground.

The glass shell broke upon impact, dozens of tiny shards reflecting lamplight—then, as Steve rather heard than saw, a charge snaked outward along the wet stones to a stunned Stane, who never managed to move his finger. His body twitched and fell, convulsing, onto the tracks.

Yet, barely detectable over the sound of his heavy breathing, Steve’s ears registered a strange sizzle. His warning never left his abused throat; horror-struck and cursed by his only human reflexes, he was forced to watch as Tony’s propped arms buckled under him. And although the bad in the world had been conquered, although the good had prevailed, the day claimed its last victim when Tony sagged forward, quite lifeless, onto the foot of the church.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope it's alright!  
> I didn't have time to edit it because I wrote 6K of a How to Train Your dragon AU--which, I swear, is writing itself. The blond Bulky Viking Steve vs. Scrawny Inventor and Dragon-lover Tony was too much for me to resist. Just to clarify, it usually takes me 12 months to write a fic (this here took 18 r.i.p.) but this ... this is absolutely blowing up. I just returned from a 10-mile walk and I walked like a teenagers with my nose in my phone because I couldn't put the Notes App down, THAT'S how strong my 48h brainstorm was!
> 
> Anyway, thanks for sticking with me to this point of the story. If you're interested in this new one, if I continue with this speed, it should be ready by September lol


	7. Returns and Repercussions

A nurse in long, starched apron walked past with a rattling tray of instruments to one of the ten beds but Steve paid it no mind. He sat there, on a white rickety chair that dug into his vertebra when leaned against, like he had done for the past twenty hours, glancing from Tony’s sleeping form to the blood-caked ring. It had been scarlet and gold when his watch started but was now browning and flaky.

A sound broke his focus; a shift of sheets that had had him shooting out of the chair several times just for it to have been a false alarm. But, looking at the flutter of Tony’s bruised lid and the shift of his hands under the thin and rough sheet, Steve knew this would finally be it.

Tony blinked at the high ceiling, no doubt confused about his whereabouts and blinded by the sudden harsh whiteness of the room. His chest was raising under the covers a bit faster. His hand went to his throat, grabbing only air.

“It’s on the bedside desk,” Steve said.

Tony’s head whipped around at his voice; his eyes were wild.

“What?” he croaked. “Oh … yeah … right.”

It was an odd moment. He and Tony had been briefly united against Stane—now the fact they used to be lovers came back to them both. Neither spoke, but there seemed to be an unwritten rule that one could look only when the other’s attention was elsewhere. Steve took full advantage of this, letting his eyes sweep over Tony’s bruised features once again; Steve felt the hit from the beam resonate in each of his own injuries.

“I—”

Tony broke off in coughs. Steve sprung up from his chair and helped Tony up, propping a pillow against the middle bar of the white metal headboard and guided Tony to rest his head on it.

“Water?” Steve asked, holding a cup for Tony to take.

Tony eyed it but didn’t take it. Confused, Steve set the cup back down on the table.

“It’s too big,” Tony hoarsely, with half a glance at his ring. “Turns out being held captive is stressful.”

He had probably meant it as a mood-lightener, but the statement fell flat for Steve, whose gaze brushed, in self-hatred, over all the sharper than usual angles of Tony.

“I wore it on a chain around my neck,” Tony spoke up and tugged down the collar of his hospital-issued shirt, “See these burns here? Funny, how metal conducts heat.”

Steve listened to him babble with a polite, albeit confused, smile.

“You could have thrown it away. I wouldn’t have minded.” He glanced at his hand from which his own ring was finally absent. “I _won’t_ mind.”

When he lifted his eyes, Tony’s gaze was on his unadorned hand as well. Steve saw his throat bob.

“So,” Tony asked, “how long will I be bedbound? Do they have you playing my nurse?” When he smiled, it was fabricated; all cheek, no eyes. “Not that it’s the worst option thinkable but … might be less awkward for all parties involved if you didn’t give me a sponge bath. It’s been sixty days after all.”

“Sixty-four,” offered Steve. “You’ll have to stay here for six more days.”

 _“Six?”_ said Tony loudly. Quieter, he insisted, “I’m fine,”

“You,” Steve said slowly, “are fine because Bruce studied at Harvard and had a friend in a new, special branch of medicine they call neuroscience. To tell the truth, it sounds a little shaky to me.”

“The Woodward’s Gardens’ magician, you mean? He’s got the name for it, I see what you mean.”

Steve felt the signs of genuine smile tug at his lips. Tony stared at him.

“You sure the charge didn’t zap _you_ ,” Tony asked. "‘Cause usually, about now, you would be lecturing me about situational appropriateness and tact?”

“It’s good to have you back, Tony,” Steve told him honestly.

Tony sucked in his cheeks; finding it very hard to hold Steve’s gaze just then. “Well, yeah, it’s … it’s … it’s good to be alive.”

Tony picked up the ring, seemingly just to have something, anything, to do with his hands, even if it meant bringing attention to such a controversial object. He started to clinically chip away the thin crusting of blood with a fingernail, almost uncaring of its origin.

“Did your father teach you to shoot?”

The sudden, irrelevant question caught Steve by surprise. He couldn’t tell where Tony was getting at—or if he even knew what he meant by it.

“What makes you think I spent much time with him?” he said finally.

“You were raised on a farm. As a single child.”

“He didn’t teach me,” Steve told him. “I taught myself, just as you did.”

Tony had yet to lift his gaze from his hands.

“You know more about me than I realized,” he said. “Did you grieve when he died?”

“Who?”

“Your father.”

Steve didn’t answer directly. Instead, he said, “I was young. We all go sometime.”

“Really? Well, I suppose that’s going around,” Tony said, and Steve knew he did not mean death. “I hated mine. At least I’m not afraid to say so.”

A nurse passed by the bed on her way to the corner of the room. It was turning late. They were performing the last bandage change before nighttime. Tony gazed steadfastly at the woman. What exactly he had meant to make Steve feel, he didn’t know.

“I guess we had that much in common,” Steve said quietly. “We both grew up wishing not be like our fathers.”

Neither spoke for a moment. Then—

“Were you really afraid of me?” Tony blurted out.

Steve had to think for a moment before he realized what Tony was talking about.

“Oh…” he said dully, the memory coming back to him at last. _You’re scaring me,_ he had said. “I always have and always will be afraid _for_ you, Tony.”

Another silence followed. Just when Tony looked like he would bring some subterranean train of thought to the surface, clicking heels hurried closer and he withdrew back into his shell; Steve all but bit his tongue.

“It’s late,” Steve said instead. “I should leave.” Tony’s eyes snapped to meet his. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Tony’s shoulders relaxed; Steve rose from his seat.

“Wait,” Tony said and passed Steve, who had frozen still, a folded piece of thick letter paper. “Can you give this to Fury.”

The nurse came to extinguish the dripping candle on Tony’s bedside and in its soon-to-be-lost light, Steve quickly read the missing page of Obadiah Stane’s letter, which held only a few lines:

> _such stark heredity can be so steadfastly obsessed over the ethics of the industry his father and the fathers before them have built their family fortune on._
> 
> _God bless you,_
> 
> _O.S._

When Steve was a dozen steps away from the bed, Tony stopped him again.

“Steve?”

“Yes, Tony?” said Steve immediately.

Tony held his chin high. “I’m not a murderer.”

Steve hadn’t realized his guilt went so deep that he had thought Steve, too, would hold the misuse of his creations against him. Steve thought of young Tony—orphan, eager to please—being taken advantage of by someone he considered a parental figure, and Steve had to fight to keep his anger at bay, lest Tony misunderstood.

“I know,” Steve replied.

Tony turned his head away. Steve left, suspecting he had broken in tears and did not wish for Steve to witness them.

***

Steve acknowledged they had all been extremely lucky: Sam had been clipped by a shot across his back that nicked one shoulder blade; Scott had also been grazed by a bullet; Natasha’s worst injury was a buckshot that had shred three holes through her hat’s crown. The worst of them, discounting Tony, remained Bucky, who, rather airily, proclaimed he finally had something show off to the ladies back in town, should they finally warm up to him. Cheered by this visible recovery, Steve felt he would not be missed and sat up, brushing at his creased pants.

“On your way to the hubby?” Bucky asked. “Tell me, does he have a real shiner?”

“It’s not pretty.”

“You two made up yesterday all right?”

“I am not his keeper,” said Steve in a measured tone. “Tony can do whatever he likes.”

Bucky groaned. “Oh, you’re being _noble_.”

“I’m doing the right thing,” Steve said stiffly and left.

Over in the corridor, Steve spied Fury finishing a conversation with Tony’s doctor. When they passed by each other just by the door of Tony’s ward, Fury nodded to him cordially.

“Rogers,” he greeted.

“Mr. Spy,” acknowledged Steve.

Hurrying forward to catch the doctor himself, Steve lengthened his stride.

“How’s it looking?” he asked anxiously.

“Healed but stubborn as an ox,” answered the man, Dr. Strange. “Had he been standing, the voltage difference between each point of contact with ground would have caused the current to arch up one foot and exit the other.”

Steve felt a headache about to start behind his eyes. “In English?”

“His heart is weak, and his luck excellent.”

Then, already dreading the answer, Steve asked for possible psychological trauma, thinking of yesterday and how Tony had refused the glass of water.

“It’s a defense mechanism,” said the doctor before he left. “His mind tries to regulate his life again in the ways he can control. It will be fine once he regains normalcy.”

 _What normalcy?_ Steve thought as he entered the ward. The one with Steve or the one back in East?

Here, he found Tony staring at a glass of water in his hands, at his own distorted reflection on it, with such dark an expression, Steve got that he had been doing it for a while. He couldn’t quite picture Fury handing it; Tony must have picked it up himself.

“Here to hear me confess my sins?” Tony asked, shooting a glance at Steve. “I already did. You just missed Father Fury.”

With a slight screech against the stone tiles, Steve drew up a chair for himself, and settled anew at Tony’s bedside.

“It was war, Tony. It has always been fought with weapons.” Steve looked down at his lap, where his own hands looked large but clean. “Your hands are no dirtier than that of those who wielded them.”

Tony tore his gaze away from Steve.

“Fury said the construction of the bridge is underway,” he said, matter of fact. “He also pointed out that I own a company now, and since I’m to be held responsible for the destruction of the last one, I should pitch in.”

Steve scowled. “You don’t have to.”

“I kind of do.”

“Why _did_ you do it?”

“Believe me or not I thought it a kinder fate to staging my death. Plus, I didn’t set that molded piece of junk afire, personally.”

“Rumlow?” asked Steve.

“Oh, you two got acquainted?” said Tony, who had maintained the same light tone throughout the conversation. “You know, then, that Obie organized to have you killed if I didn’t leave with Scarface and Monobrow?”

Steve raised his brows, not showing a hint of fear or astonishment. “Anyone else?”

Tony’s lips twitched.

“When Obie found out where I lived … A part of me told to scatter the mail into the river and continue this new life … but…”

“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” Steve finished.

“Unlike the prevalent climate, _I_ felt obligated to stop my designs from ending up in the wrong hands.”

Steve hummed.

“What?” Tony asked suspiciously.

“You just sounded like someone who, too, thought the safest hands would be his own.”

“Admirable character,” said Tony jauntily. “Who’s he?”

“Hank Pym.”

Tony recoiled. “That old _goat?”_

“You know, he had a similar idea as your jacket.” He picked at the lapels of it. “Tony, I owe you my life. Things like these … it’s unfathomable.”

“What is?”

“You,” Steve said. “What you’ve created. It’s amazing.”

This had actually caught Tony off guard; his eyes tried to land on something other, _anything other_ , then Steve’s look of outward gratitude. “It’s … it’s nothing—I—” his stutters ground to a halt. “That one’s new.”

Steve followed his eyes to the scar on his palm. “Ish.”

 _“What_ did you do on the night of the fire,” asked Tony, his face tight and voice controlled.

“Felt obligated,” Steve shot back.

Tony’s mouth worked for several moments as he tried to form into words his current thought process. Eventually, he settled for a thoroughly exasperated expression.

“See, this is why we always bicker,” he said. “We’re both stubborn by fault and somehow take it upon ourselves to try and out-stubborn one another.” He shook his head and gave Steve a onceover. “It’s like raving at a brick wall.”

He shifted on upon the bed and winced.

“I guess I should hand over the ring. It’s officially not mine, by now. How long did it take—just out of curiosity, by the way—for Phil to make it on-record?”

Steve felt as though a brick had slid down his chest to his stomach and then risen back up. He remembered now: the divorce papers he had received from Coulson on the day of meeting Jarvis. And now that he thought about it, they were still in the pocket of his light brown jacket he had worn that day, and he had … he had…

“I never signed them,” Steve said as the realization struck. By law, they were _still married._

“Sorry?” Tony said. “What was that?”

“I didn’t sign them,” Steve repeated, louder. “They only got there the day before we left. I never got the … well, truth is, I didn’t want to,” Steve said frankly, then pulled a small golden object from his jacket pocket.

Tony had to look at him to see what Steve was showing him: his wedding ring.

“I am not proud of it, I was selfish, but there it is…”

 _“Steve,”_ said Tony in such a voice that caused Steve looked up. “You stubborn—”

The bedsprings let out a wailing creak. Tony had launched off the bed, and Steve felt himself tugged toward him; Tony smelled of the state-sanctioned soap they wash everything with here. Steve had to lock his free arm around Tony’s shoulders to brace him and, feeling stunned by his good fortune in having things turn out like this. He curled his fingers into the curls at the nape of Tony’s neck.

Tony sighed. Steve felt this both in the movement of his jaw against his shoulder, and in the breath that stirred his own long hair. As if following an identic thought process, a curious finger started to play with a strand of it. Steve suppressed a shiver.

“It gets lighter at the ends,” he heard Tony mutter against his neck, and wished there was a reflective surface available to catch his expression. “Did you know?”

“It’s sun-bleached,” he told Tony.

The finger stopped, and Tony’s weight shifted. Last, Steve registered something was being pressed to his balled hand: Tony’s ring, now clinking next to its twin.

Steve started to draw away.

“Put that where it belongs,” Tony said.

Steve’s head snapped up.

 _“Now?”_ he asked, flummoxed.

“What, I could have waited for a more appropriate moment but then again, I did just get my ass beaten by a beam. Nearly being killed by my own godfather—again—was just the cherry on top, so I thought, hey, life truly ain’t that grand.” Tony shrugged, nonchalant, and finished with, “Might as well embrace it.”

And, for the first time in what felt like months, Steve laughed. It felt both awkward and absolutely wonderful bubbling up his throat.

“Well, put it on.” Tony’s hands were suddenly warm upon Steve’s. “Gotta claim my man—there’s no doubt been lots of interest back home.”

“Interest that the ‘man’ has been too obtuse to notice,” said Steve, trying not to freak out about _home_ , which was repeating inside his head like a broken mantra.

“Lucky me,” purred Tony.

Still unsure whether this was a very intricate dream or not, Steve started to slowly slide the ring where it belonged—past a new scar on Tony’s knuckle—sitting tight where it fit best.

And only when Steve caught Tony’s expression of disbelief, did he conversely start to believe in it himself, and fully trust when a matching band laid on his. They would need to learn each other’s bodies again, as well as their own, Steve thought. But for now, both of them were content with simply lingering in the other’s presence…

“Steve,” Tony broke the silence at length, “please tell me you’re going to intimidate Mr. Circus Show out there into letting me out.”

“A week,” said Steve firmly. “You were electrocuted.”

“We’re all full of electricity, Steve. It’s how the human body works,” Tony started but became sheepish as he observed on Steve’s face a mixture of grief and accumulating fury.

“You wore an explosive on your body—"

“Technically, it’s not an explosive—"

“—and you told me to _throw it?”_

“Fair enough,” Tony said and sat back. He let his raised hands go limp, slapping them against his thighs as they came to rest there. “A week. Done. Agreed.”

He grew quiet but only for a spell.

“You know what I want when we get back?” he said and smacked his lips. “A coffee. Given how bad it is, I think they soak patients’ old socks in it in this joint.”

In reply to this, Steve gave another unpracticed laugh that tugged at the muscles of his face painfully but, although his cheeks were beginning to ache, he was very much looking forward to training them for future use.

***

The weather could not have been different on the journey back to Colorado than it had been on the way to San Francisco three weeks previous. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. The seven of them had managed to get two rows of seats for themselves. Natasha was a woman again with her read hair falling down her chest in ringlets; Scott was dozing, his head against the window, and Clint was visibly suppressing the will to mess with him on the seat next to him. Sam, Bucky and Steve talked more fully and freely than they had done in months, as the train sped eastwards. Steve felt as though finding Tony had unblocked them, somehow. It was less painful to discuss what had happened on the months leading to their breakup. They broke off their conversation about what sort of town they were returning to, only when a group of loud gentlemen boarded the train in Carson City.

When they sat down on the row before, their creased pants dislodged a copy of today’s paper, which had been rolled into a deep pocket.

Steve craned his head carefully, for he loath to dislodge Tony’s sleeping head on his right shoulder, but Natasha, seeing him looking at it, said calmly, “There’s nothing in there. I checked. Fury’s made sure of it.”

“What’s to come of this?” said Bucky. “What are they going to say to people? I imagine it’s going to be hard to shrug everything off as just an earthquake, given the amount of witnesses.”

Steve shrugged, but arduously so, because Tony had started to make little noises in his sleep. His body twitched.

“You know,” said Sam, looking over at the sleeping man, “I’ve never seen him close his eyes. This is fascinating.”

Steve scowled and took off his hat. He placed it over Tony, shielding his face from the others’ gazes. Beside Steve, Tony twitched again.

“Don’t be so loud,” Steve reprimanded.

“Uh-oh, too late,” said Sam.

For Tony had startled awake. The hat toppled off, revealing a wide-eyed Tony, cold sweat on his forehead.

“Air,” said Steve at once. “Open the window.”

It opened barely a half an inch. Steve took Tony to another cluster of free seats and tried that window. It slid down with a squeak, cold air swooping in and ruffling both their lengthened hair. Tony breathed in deep and leaned his forehead against the window. Steve sat by his side, taking a hold of his hand.

No matter the cause, this here was familiar.

“Want to try again or should we talk about it?” Steve asked quietly, rubbing a circle into Tony’s palm.

Tony opened his eyes and looked out of the window, head lolling slightly as the train curved. The slowly-moving, snowy landscape reflected off his eyes.

“I saw death,” he said. “Sometimes I dreamt of losing you. I felt it. It was my fault, I knew it. I dreamed of war. I dreamed of you fighting in it and of you dying from my weapons. It was easier to not sleep.”

Steve opened his mouth—

“You would, wouldn’t you?” Tony asked, turning away from the window. There was no accusation in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Steve said honestly. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Well,” said Tony flippantly, “the enemy of the State is six feet under. I’ve got the company now. I’ve turned on a new leaf, I am _tabula rasa_ , the blank slate. Et cetera, et cetera. Heck, maybe I should start making water cannons … do something good in the world for a change.”

“You’re not a bad person, Tony,” Steve said firmly before Tony could ruminate himself into a deeper spiral of self-loathing. “Yes, meeting you was arranged but loving you was a choice. I don’t want someone ideologically pure. I just want _you.”_

The following expression was the more terrible because Steve had never expected or dreamed that he could ever see such a look on Tony’s face: being hit by a beam, getting struck by electricity, none of it had left Tony looking this vulnerable.

Steve still had not seen his chest. The bulb was gone, and so were the wires—several feet of thin metal tubes snaking up and down his arms—they removed before surgery at the hospital. Steve could see little red marks left by them on Tony’s exposed forearms. Though, catching Steve’s look Tony, perhaps accidentally, shifted them away.

“What?” he asked. “You were looking kind of … intense there.”

Steve arranged his features into a, hopefully, convincing smile. “Am I not allowed to admire?”

Tony flushed.

“You know I’m not actually a drunk, right? Didn’t exactly fit my modus operandi despite my laundry list of past vices. In fact,” he said, “when the first letter came, when I was planning on my own death, I spent hours thinking how to do it convincingly. Drowning, wash away my body? Too risky. Fire, obviously, would leave the least evidence. But then … I imagined you in that plot. The grief on your face, volunteering to carry my, supposed, body to its last resting place…

“That expression you have when you oversee the usual burials … I could only imagine what it would be like if it were me in that coffin. Sometimes lying awake at night I imagined what you’d write on the stone. Something tear-jerking and romantic, as is your usual style—only a little bit tacky.”

Steve was surprised he still had a voice. “Tony—”

“I faked it. Figured it would hit you were it hurt Sorry ‘bout that.” … “In my defense, I thought it would be done and dusted sooner. Stane’s letters kept getting more and more frequent and I just … waited and _waited_ for you to finally snap.” He gave a humorless laugh. “My biggest mistake, so far, was to forget you never quit. And yours was to think far too highly of me.”

Steve felt this was unfair.

“You faking it is no excuse for how I acted,” Steve started hotly. “Bad memories or not I shouldn’t have pushed you like that—”

“And what?” insisted Tony. “You’d wait until I snapped out of it on my own? What if I didn’t?”

“Is this about your father again? I’m trying to tell you I was in the wrong.”

“Careful, Steve,” Tony said, grinning. “It almost sounds like you’re apologizing. In which case, I’ll have to electrocute myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. No?” he added, catching Steve’s eye. “Too early?”

“Would you not accept if I was?”

“There’s nothing to forgive. Look,” he said at Steve’s no doubt constipated expression, “let’s just agree to disagree, all right?”

They sat, shivering now, for the train was speeding much faster on a plain and the wind whipped their fringes ruthlessly. For a few minutes, the only sound was the howl of the draught. But then Tony shimmied up the window and, when even that noise was cut off, the pressing need to say something became too much for Steve.

“You shouldn’t worry,” Steve comforted. “It’s only human.”

Tony blinked.

“What is?”

“To mourn even those who were bad to us. You were with him for so long.”

“I was, wasn’t I?”

Steve looked at Tony subconsciously tapping his chest again. “How—”

“I’m not dead?” Tony finished astutely. “Don’t look at me like that—like I’m a … supreme human. It was luck, a mad stroke of luck, a second chance at life. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t escape unscratched—” his fingers stilled on his chest “—I had my fair share of health problems, but … there was a man.”

Steve held his breath, but Tony did not elaborate; just looked out of the window in what looked to be another troubled silence.

“And then what?” Steve asked, quietly.

Tony looked visibly glad Steve had broken the silence.

“Well, obviously, Obie was very prominently there, commanding space as he always does … _did_. Just for the record, imprisoned in his house with just a box of scraps for company until my father’s legacy was officially transferred to his name was about as fun as it sounds. On my twelfth birthday, he had me transferred to the New York factory. I think he told me to ‘think of it as a nice fieldtrip.’ Very nice sense of humor, that man had.

“There, I worker right under the noses of people who should’ve for all intents and purposes considered me their superior. I kept thinking, if they did not believe, who would have, if I did run? But Obie had his ways to ensure I didn’t. He started offering me drinks to drown things, troubled thoughts, nightmares—and trust me, there was a never-ending well of them—but when it started, there was no stopping it. This was used against me. Relief for success, withhold for failure. Eventually, you just went with it.”

“But you did get out? To upstate New York.”

“Found about that, too, huh? The news that the war had ended reached me quickly. I sensed a chance. That’s when I waned myself from the drink. Eventually, I could go days without needing it. I stated to plan. The day Lincoln was killed was not the plan but that’s why it worked so perfectly. Between the stocks dropping and people mourning, no one quite had a hold of things—or me. So I just … walked out of there and—” he paused “—disappeared.”

Steve was sure his grip on Tony’s hand was now so tight it was painful.

“But, hey,” said Tony in a changed tone, “there’s actually two people you could meet now that the threat is over. Maybe I’ll send them mail someday, ask them how they are,” Tony mused, and Steve wondered either of these were behind the penmanship of the date at the back of the photograph.

“I’d love to,” Steve told him.

“One is an army man like you, but I don’t know if he’s still … anyway. Pepper’s fierce—and I mean Natasha-level spitfire, just not as red. You’d like them.”

“I find I quite like them already,” said Steve, smiling wide and gave Tony’s hand a squeeze. Tony looked back, still wondering at being looked like this.

***

Their horses were saddled; tied to the back of a stage. Steve and Tony were waiting in the crowded station yard of Julesburg with the rest of the company for a promised ride that would take them back home. It was a beautiful December’s day. Steve supposed the weather would remain so, when they arrived there in a day’s time. The thought of clear snow and glittered sun gave him much more pleasure than it would have a week ago.

“Tony!”

Steve looked around. Happy Hogan was hurrying past the lingering people. Beyond him, far across the grounds, Steve could see Ms. Pym chase a little girl hurtling through the crowds at full speed.

“I was told you were in need of a ride,” panted Happy, as he reached them, hovering on the cusp of what seemed to be an impulsive hug. “There’s room for four.”

“Hey,” said Tony. “Thought you were done being a chauffeur service?”

“That was a confidential conversation,” said Happy, sounding slightly upset. “I felt mean just voicing it—blimey!”

Happy rocked forward. The little girl was hurtling around his legs, squealing in delight and throwing herself into the arms of a laughing Scott, who lifted her up in one, smooth swing, crying, “Cassie!”

Steve, who couldn’t help but notice the girl looked at his father with the amount of awe Scott bestowed upon Steve, smiled. While he wondered at the proof of a generation that had not known war, Tony had joined him by his elbow, staring at the scene himself with an unreadable expression.

“How’s Peter?” Tony asked, watching the girl hug Scott’s legs so tight he fell over.

“What, you two planning to adopt?” said Natasha’s wry voice from behind them. “That’s cute.”

“Only if it was the last option,” Tony said, “and God help the kid if it is.”

Steve choked. Emerging from his crouched coughing, wet-eyed and sore-throated, he saw something calculated to save him: Happy’s carriage behind the stationhouse.

They were truly home now: only a hundred miles laid between them and their house, and that distance now sounded merely a fraction of what it had been a week ago. Steve looked at Tony and saw this realization in his eyes, too.

Steve stepped towards the coach, only to realize none except Tony were following.

“You—you aren’t going to come?” he asked, perplexed. “There’s room for two more.”

Sam gave a great guffaw into his fist.

“Maybe it’s best we leave you two to … _talk.”_

From his position in front of the group, Steve looked at from one man to another. There was a noise behind him, and Steve turned. His suspicion grew: Tony was standing feet from him and gave Steve a beaming smile; Steve had forgotten, or had never fully appreciated, how beautiful he was, but he had never been quite so uneager to lock himself in a confined space with Tony for a couple days.

When they at last stepped inside the carriage, whose suspension yielded to their weight, Steve took a seat on the opposite side of the carriage with his body buzzing. He knew he ought to feel excited; there was clear tension in Tony’s eyes as he took in Steve’s appearance, but he felt things were unfinished—uncommunicated and unfinished.

They trundled through the snowy desert, over the river, where the steel bridge was built: still lacking rails but sturdy enough to cross. Here, Steve looked down at the river water, which had frozen itself a lid; below it, water fluidly trickled under the translucent cover.

Once they passed it, Tony punched the stage ceiling twice.

“Take us home, Happy.”

“No,” said Steve loudly, “to the saloon, please.” At Tony’s look, Steve said, “There’s someone who would like to meet you.”

Tony’s face was expressionless, but his eyes were flickering back and forth between Steve’s, as though trying to catch a trap in one of them.

“As long as I get that coffee first?”

Steve huffed. “Coffee first.”

Tony looked bewildered but, freshly caffeinated, followed Steve up the staircase into the second floor of the Saloon and across the landing. Steve knocked on the last door on the right. A muffled, “Come in!” answered them.

Jarvis was laying on a bed near the window. This offered him a good field of vision of the main street below, where he had no doubt caught their approach. He winced a little as he shifted his propped position upon the bed.

Next to Steve, Tony jolted to a stop.

Jarvis, smiling faintly, said, “Anthony.”

Tony’s expression changed slowly from denial to recognition and to shock as he looked at Jarvis— _really_ looked at him—for the first time.

_“Jarvis?”_

Tony had run to him and set his cup down on the hardwood floor with a thud; he must have seen, too, that the most colorful thing on Jarvis’ face remained a liver spot. But as he gazed upon Tony for the first time in almost two decades, Steve got the feeling life had been breathed into the old man.

“I would embrace you,” said he, softly, “but I’m afraid I no longer have the strength to get out of this bed.”

“Don’t.” Tony clutched his wrinkled hands. “I _will_ make you see more of this town than this room. Even if it means making you a new pair of legs, I will do it,” he finished fiercely.

Jarvis blinked at him. Steve thought his milky eyes wouldn’t dry for the rest of the day; he just hoped this shock, though a happy one at that, would not prove to be too much for him. Not when they had just gotten each other back.

Awkwardly, Tony’s hands not releasing their grip, Jarvis reached out a hand to trail a finger down Tony’s cheek.

“Curious,” he said.

“What’s curious?” asked Tony quickly.

“I said you had your father’s mouth,” he mused, still cradling Tony’s cheek, “but _that_ is undoubtedly your mother’s smile.”

Tony’s voice sounded thick as he replied, “No one’s ever compared me to my mother—"

Coulson opens the door. From behind him, noise leaks in.

“What the damn hell is that?” asked Tony, all previous expression sliding off his face.

They walked out into the corridor, followed along it to the exposed railing that opened a view to downstairs where what seemed to be the whole town had gathered. At the sight of them, their noise filled the room all the way to the rafters. Trading looks, Tony and Steve descended the stairs.

The crowd surged upon them like a tidal wave as soon as they reached the bottom step. Their questions created a chaotic bubbling of sounds—

“STARK!”

“It’s Anthony Stark, it’s Howard’s SON!”

“He’s _alive?”_

The pale December morning sun dazzled the windows as they thundered towards them, their voices as deafening and as incomprehensible as afar, and Steve could not hear a word that anyone was shouting, nor tell whose hands were seizing him, pulling him, trying to get answers to their inquiries…

“One at a time, please,” said Coulson loudly, yet gesturing calmly with his hand. “One at a time.”

“What of Stane? They say he’s dead…”

“An unfortunate accident,” said Coulson. “Mostly blown up by hearsay.”

There was a wave of disappointment that swept through the Saloon; Steve suspected they had all assumed he had been involved in something heroic, preferably involving a couple of dark creatures and a bad man.

“So you didn’t see a man in iron armor?”

“Copper-zinc,” Steve heard Tony mutter. “It’s a _copper-zinc_ alloy.”

“Afraid not,” said Coulson, “but if you so wish, you can hear all about the adventure of stuck trains in the middle of a summit. I hear it is quite thrilling.”

He, then, gave Steve and Tony both a none-too-gentle, meaningful shove towards the space opening in the middle of a room as the men backed off. All inhabitants in the room were staring at them, some enthusiastically, others solemnly. A few rose from their seats to see them better.

“We—” Steve begun, without knowing what he was going to say, but it did not matter: Tony strutted forward, one hand in a pocket, one gesturing airily as he spoke.

“Well,” he said, “while I liked the analogy of this … iron man to the heroes of medieval Europe, strictly speaking it was simply highly pressurized steam from a hydro-pneumatic, er …” He caught Coulson’s eye and the glazed looks of his audience. “What I meant to say was that the rumors are highly exaggerated. A fairytale-like creature appearing just in the nick of time to save the world is hardly what actually went down. You see, what really happened—what really took place is that…”

Tony trailed off and stared off into nothingness past the sunlit windows. And although Steve saw it, the mad idea that lit Tony’s eyes, he was too late in opening his mouth to stop his husband from saying the next four words:

“I am Iron Man.”

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!  
> Thanks for making it to the end of this story, even though I totally blew that original update schedule. Sorry 'bout that.  
> They lifted the corona restrictions where I live and I finally was able to spend the midsummer holiday with my family (grandma included), and we got that house sold last Monday! I was busy at calling the bank, printing and copying papers and whatnot the whole week, too. 
> 
> I hate bureaucracy.
> 
> Anyways, a MASSIVE thank you to anyone who left comments, kudos or bookmarked! You are all my heroes and the real MVPs of the stony fandom for clicking on a fic that is so outside the common tropes. Thank you, thank you, thank you!  
> If you liked my writing style, you're welcome to keep tabs on my next possible stories that are as follows:
> 
> \- A/B/O How to Train Your Dragon AU (Hiccup!Tony, Astrid!Steve)  
> \- An Agatha Christie-like Detective Novel (Detective!Steve, Rich Manor-owner!Tony)
> 
> Should we have a vote which it will be? Ha ha!  
> xx

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATES EVERY 4-5 DAYS!
> 
> Hi!  
> This is a mostly finished fic. 53K are sitting in my Words Document right now that I, quite frankly, would have polished and polished for all eternity. But, given the situation outside, i thought I would give my two cents to the fic-creating effort and offer you something to read while quarantined inside four walls--depending where you live.
> 
> Hopefully you will come to enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing. Give me a comment, drop a like or subscribe and I might just update the next 10K-ish faster, 'cause I'm weak for that kind of thing ;)
> 
> See ya!


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